


boys don't cry

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blowjobs, Consent Issues, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Families of Choice, Frottage, Internalized Homophobia, Jailbait tropes, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Unconventional Families, Unsafe Sex, handjobs, sketchy power dynamics, teenaged!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a sudden, hysterical impulse to tell Harold everything. He wants to talk about the way he feels when he is around Harold, happy and scared and somehow lighter, like he might float away at any moment. He wants to talk about Logan's nervous, careful hands and Ashley's impatience and the way John sometimes feels like he doesn't belong anywhere, with anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/gifts).



> This story wouldn't exist without a bunch of lovely, supportive, endlessly talented people. Just so you know: you are all amazing & a true inspiration.
> 
>  _Dana:_ "I WILL WRITE YOU THE JAILBAIT FIC OF YOUR DREAMS BB", I said, and then promptly wrote >40k of something that isn't even jailbait. Anyway ILU and you are the best and I hope you like it anyway <3 Thanks for talking this fic through with me and getting so excited about bb!Root and being so lovely in general. 
> 
> _Toft:_ What can I say about Toft, really: extremely awesome, very encouraging, INCREDIBLE writer, non-problematic fave all around. Thank you so much for holding my hand and offering comments and encouragement while I was writing this fic; it meant a lot to me. 
> 
> _Sky:_ YOU ARE AN ACTUAL REAL LIFE CINNAMON ROLL OKAY. Thank you so much for being involved in this story bb, you are a JOY and an incredible beta and you are always there to listen to my rants and ideas and random bits of fic.  <3 
> 
> _Villainny:_ Thank you for being so invested in this fic and for caring so much about these characters  <3 I hope you won't be disappointed that I'm not turning the epilogue into a longer fic – you made excellent points about the emotional narrative, but while I did the final editing on this fic, I realized that for me, the narrative is complete as it is. Still, your comments and insights and live squee were unbelievably helpful! :) I really do hope that you enjoy this story anyway.
> 
>  _Neverwhere:_ aka “The Person Who Improves Anything I Write By Roughly 300%”. Super smart and perceptive and lovely and just does the most amazing editing. How did I ever write fic without you, my dear.  <3 Thank you so much for your work on this, you really helped to improve and shape this story.
> 
>  _Teaanddenial:_ Thanks so much for your concrit: it really helped to turn this into a much better story.  <3 Also thanks so much for your enthusiasm and prompts and squee when it comes to my writing, it means a lot! <3

The ground is dry, burned from the simmering heat. John runs. Every step throws up a faint cloud of reddish dust. His shirt is soaked, the sun is beating down against his neck. Sweaty strands of his hair are sticking to his face. Over on the basketball court, there is a group of guys shouting: they pass the ball between them, showing off. Some girls have collected at the edge of the playing field, leaning against the fence in their short skirts and bubblegum colored tops.

John stops, panting. He wipes his face with his arm and gets his backpack from where he has hidden it under the bleachers. He pulls out a bottle of water and drinks with greedy gulps.

"Trying out for track next year?"

John turns around. One of the boys has separated from the rest and is leaning against the benches, watching him. It's Logan, quick-witted and constantly broke, his hair bleached from the sun. He wants to be an entrepreneur when he gets older, he always says. _Make more money than god_.

"Nah, just getting some exercise," John says. He doesn't really care for any of the sports teams. He isn't good enough to get a scholarship anyway, and most of the guys just do it to impress girls.

Logan shrugs. He runs his hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. His fringe is getting into his eyes. He needs a haircut, John thinks. "Track and Field is lame, anyway," Logan says.

John shoulders his backpack. He wants to go home, change out of his sweaty clothes and shower. "Look, I gotta go, I need to work today and I don't wanna be late."

Logan nods hastily. "Sure, sure. Still doing the cleaning job for Mrs. Williams?"

John can see the way Logan is staring at his mouth. They drove around in his father's truck that one time, parked it on a deserted spot in the woods, had some beers. "Couples come here to have sex sometimes," Logan said. He couldn't stop fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie, and he wasn't meeting John's eyes.

"Okay," John said, although he had no idea what he was agreeing to, and then Logan kissed him, his mouth open and wet against John's. His were on John's shoulders, his thighs, and John had gotten hard, sweating all over, dizzy with confusion and _want._

He told himself later that it was hormones, just the effect of somebody kissing him. It doesn't mean that he's into guys. They had jerked each other off, the sound of their panting breaths too loud in the silence of the car. It doesn't mean _anything_ , John thinks. Straight guys do that, too, at parties, as a dare; it's just guys being guys.

"It's not like there are many summer jobs in this town, and it's better than nothing," John says. "I don't exactly have many special skills to offer, so cleaning and mowing the lawn it is."

"Hey, maybe you want to come over sometime?” Logan says, like it has just occurred to him, but his hands betray him, clenching and unclenching nervously. “Play video games, or something. Maybe I can get my dad to let me take the truck again, we could drive around."

John's neck is hot. Maybe he got sunburn, running in circles in the midday heat. "Yeah, maybe I will," he says.

Logan's smile is a little sad, like he already knows that John isn't going to come. "Cool. I better get back to the game, they're probably losing without me."

"See you around," John says, and watches Logan jog back to the basketball court. Then he takes off in the opposite direction.

–

Mr. and Mrs. Williams own a house just at the edge of town, where the aquamarine of the swimming pools is a sharp contrast to the dingy one-room apartments and trailer parks of John's neighborhood. John rides his bike there, his backpack filled with extra cleaning supplies, the book he's reading stuffed in hastily on top.

His mother used to work for the couple before, cleaning the house twice a week. She did their laundry and occasionally left food in the massive fridge. Now she has a cleaning job working nights at the town's elementary school. The pay is better and she could quit some of her other jobs at least, but now his mom is asleep at daytime, and works extra shifts at the supermarkets on the weekends. It's not like they see much of each other anymore.

John turns a corner with his bike. He can already see the house, clean and white like a tooth, the water of the pool sparkling in the sun. He thought it might be fun to have time on his own, with no adult waiting up for him at home, nobody to realize when he was sneaking out after dark. During one of the first nights his mom was working, John got the keys to the truck out of a drawer. The school is close to them, so she leaves the car at home and walks to work. John had been planning to drive around a little, just take his mind off things.

He ended up at a gas station a few miles away, spending some of his earned money on filling up the truck, paranoid that his mom would notice he had been taking the car without permission. He went to the restroom in the back, dull gray concrete and naked neon lights. The restroom was in pretty bad shape, some of the doors hanging loosely, the lights above flickering and buzzing. When he got out of the stall and went to the sink to wash his hands, a man watched him, smiling at John. John smiled back, a little shakily. He dried his hands off and then pushed his hands into the pockets of his pants.

"Hey, you," the man said. He was forty, maybe, with a receding hairline and a hairy belly that showed under his shirt.

"Hey," John said. His stomach felt tight with something that wasn't fear.

"Little late for you to be out here all alone, isn't it?" The man said. He licked his lips. "How old are you, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Eighteen," John lied.

He had heard some of the guys at school talk about the place as some kind of meeting spot for people who wanted to fuck, and was gripped by a sudden, reckless abandon.

"Come on," the guy said, and John followed along.

John let himself be led into a stall and touched, a hand wandering over his shirt, the fabric of his jeans, the man's heavy breathing and grunts in his ear. When John heard the sound of a zipper being undone, he bolted, unlocked the door hastily and pushed it open. He ran all the way back to the parking lot. He shifted the gears into reverse and got the hell away, only pausing at a parking lot a few miles later to lean against the steering wheel, trying to make his heart slow down.

John chains up his bike on the fence and uses the key to get inside. The house is quiet in a way the cramped little apartment John lives in with his mom never is: there are always sounds coming through the walls, the noise of the TV, their neighbors arguing, loud music from a stereo. John knows that he only gets to work in this house because Mrs. Williams is fond of his mother. He tries his best not to screw up the responsibilities he's given.

John cleans the bathrooms and vacuums the floors. He scrubs the kitchen sink and dusts off all the shelves. After two hours, he gets his water bottle and _The Grapes of Wrath_ out of his backpack along with a sandwich that his mom made for him. He takes his book outside and sits down by the pool to read, his naked feet dangling into the water. The sun is almost gone, the sky a dark, rich color like a plum.

John is immersed in his book when he hears a voice behind him. "School assignment?"

He turns around. On the other side of the picket fence, a man with round glasses sits at a table, wearing a waistcoat over his shirt despite the heat. He has the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to expose his wrists. He is working at a computer, long fingers resting on the keys.

John shakes his head. "Not really," he says.

The man stands up and walks over to the fence, tilting his head curiously. John holds up the book so he can read the title.

"Steinbeck, hm? Not many teenagers who would pick that up unless they were forced to."

John shrugs. "I like to read."

The man takes in John's appearance: his messy hair, the threadbare shirt, the pants that he's grown out of. John swallows. He isn't used to so much attention.

"I would have guessed something like _The Catcher in the Rye_ , actually."

John scoffs. "Salinger is pretentious," he says.

The man seems pleased with that answer. "I think so, too," he says. "I'm Harold, by the way. Wren. I moved in only a few weeks ago."

"John." John knows who the guy is. He has been the number one gossip topic for weeks, the mysterious stranger who came to town, bought an expensive house in cash and now lives there all by himself, not talking to anyone. You'd think people would start minding their own business again at some point, but the more reclusive you become, the more interested they are in what is going on with you.

"You do work around the house, don't you? I think I saw you mow the lawn before."

John nods. He mostly wants to go back to his book and then finish his work and go home. Harold seems to pick up on that. He digs around in his pockets and produces a small white card.

"Look, I don't want to bother you, but I could use someone who helps keep the place clean. Whatever Mrs. Williams pays you, I'll double it."

John frowns at him. "If you don't know what she pays me, how do you know it's not, I don't know. A fortune?" he says.

Harold grins. He leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret. "Because she's incredibly cheap and won't pay a high school kid a cent more than absolutely necessary."

John has to smile a little. Mrs. Williams isn't exactly his favorite person in the world. He straightens, walks over to the fence and takes the card from Mr. Wren's outstretched hand. There's only a phone number printed on it.

"If you're interested, call me. Enjoy your book, John."

With that, he turns and walks back to his terrace, sitting back down at the computer. John puts the card into the back pocket of his pants and sits down, looking for his page.

-

When John gets home, his mother has left a note on the kitchen table and some casserole in the fridge. He turns on the radio and sits down by himself to eat, staring at the little white card in his hand. Maybe if he makes some extra money his mom can drop the weekend shifts for a while, he thinks. He suddenly remembers how they used to go to the zoo when he was little: he sat on his father's shoulders, his mother waving up to him. It was before his dad got deployed, when things still felt normal. Nothing has felt normal in quite a while, and if John is honest, he misses that more than anything: the sense of belonging.

He does the dishes and takes his book to his room. They used to live in a bigger apartment, before, but after his dad died, his mom has been struggling to pay the rent and buy them food, John's books for school, new clothes every year because he was growing so fast. His room here feels about as big as a shoe box, with a bed and a dresser crammed into it. He has books stacked on top, some framed photographs. He does all of his schoolwork at the kitchen table, trying to filter out the noise.

John crawls into bed and starts reading, but he can't focus on the story. He stares at the ceiling. He thinks of Logan, his soft mouth on John's, the little noises he made, urgent, like he needed something from John and John had no idea how to give it to him. John slides his hand under the blanket, strokes himself through his boxers. He knows that he shouldn't: he remembers enough of Bible study to be aware that what he's doing is wrong, _sinful_ , but he can't help himself. He slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers and touches himself in earnest, biting down on the noises he wants to make, forcing himself to be quiet.

He tries to think of something else: Ashley Walker, then.

–

Ashley had soft, brown hair, and her mouth was sticky with cheap lip gloss. She took his hand at a party and led him upstairs to some random bedroom, locked the door behind them. They had kissed the summer before, at a campfire, drinking flat beer and huddling for warmth. John was so surprised he couldn't do much else than follow along, and then they were on the bed, her crawling half on top of him.

"Touch me, come on," Ashley said, taking off her top, unbuttoning her jeans. She was impatient, like she had an important appointment after that she didn't want to miss.

John swallowed and stroked her arms, her back, terrified of doing something wrong. He tried to kiss her again, softly, and she shoved him back and said "Come _on,_ get to it," already unbuckling his belt.

John sometimes thought that people got the wrong idea about him: he didn't talk much, and one year, he had been in a fight because some of the jocks were beating up a boy with braces and terrified eyes. John had stepped in and pretty much dragged the bully away by the collar of his shirt: he had the advantage of height over him thanks to a recent growth spurt. Apparently some people thought that made him trouble, that and the way he had been growing into his body lately. Exercise did make him look less and less like a scrawny kid and more like somebody who could actually throw a punch. Ashley had a reputation for dating guys that were bad news, and John thought that maybe she had sorted him into the same category.

John remembers the awkward conversation he had with his mom, where she sat down with him to explain that whatever he did, he had to treat girls with respect. That some guys thought that they had a right to their bodies, a right to hurt them or treat them badly, and that she didn't want John to grow up to be one of those guys. She said that if he ever saw a drunk girl about to get herself into trouble, he should call her a cab and make sure that she got home okay.

His mom stared out of the window. "I know that your dad was supposed to tell you about these things, but he's gone, so the responsibility falls to me." She smiled her sad smile. "I know that I can't stop you from thinking about sex or having sex."

John blushed at that. "Mom," he said, wincing.

She looked at him. "I just want you to be safe when you're out there. I know everything is very confusing to you right now, but please be careful with other people. You can hurt them, you know, and then you have to live with that."

So John was careful with Ashley, trying to make it good, but that only seemed to frustrate her. She batted his hands away, got him onto his back and climbed into his lap.

"We should use," John gasped, her hand on his cock and his self-control starting to fray around the edges."We should use a condom."

She rolled her eyes at him and opened the dresser, searching around until she found a foil packet. "Happy?" She asked, annoyed, ripped it open and put it on him.

Ashley lowered herself onto his cock in one smooth move that made John gasp. Then she moved her hips, leaning down to hiss at him to fuck her harder. John shuddered and moved his hips. He tried to distract himself by counting the cracks and flaws in the ceiling, but she was moving urgently, hot and tight around him, and he came quickly. It was weirdly unsatisfying, not like the guys bragged about in the locker room. She slid off of him, already looking for her clothes.

"Hey, you didn't come, did you?” John asks, frowning. He put a hand on her arm. “I can–”

"Christ, what is wrong with you," Ashley snapped, and slapped his hand away. “It's like you've never done it before.” She got dressed and left him there, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what he had done wrong.

–

John sighs, pushing back the memories. Maybe he just hasn't found the right person – the right girl. He lets his mind wander aimlessly, pushing into his fist in the warmth underneath the blanket. It's like nothing feels appealing to him, not Logan's nervous affection, Ashley's assertiveness. John has seen some of the magazines the other guys pass around at school, but even that didn't do much for him: sure, he gets hard and jerks off, but even after that he is still filled with an endless longing for something he can't put a name to. Sometimes he is scared that maybe he doesn't want anything, that he's somehow broken that way, and at the same time, the idea of wanting the _wrong_ things - boys and their broad shoulders and square jaws instead of girls and their shiny hair, the softness of their bodies - is making him feel sick to his stomach.

John strokes himself and thinks about faceless bodies, indiscriminate human shapes . Then a different image presents itself: intelligent blue eyes behind round glasses, an amused smirk. Harold. He hadn't looked like he was making fun of John, leaning against the picket fence in his white shirt and waistcoat. His hair was thick and brown, and he looked curiously over his wire-rimmed glasses when talking to John. John remembers the way he had his hands splayed over the keyboard, pale skin and long fingers. John closes his eyes, makes an effort to push the image back, but now that he started thinking about it, he can't _stop._

Most adults look at him with a weird sort of superiority, like they emerged from the womb with a bank account and a Sedan and can't remember how it felt to be a teenager. Harold just seemed pleased that he had someone to talk to. John wonders what a guy like him is doing in a town like this. Rumor has it he mostly stays at home, sitting outside in the shade and working on his computer. Nobody really knows how he made so much money at 29, and his appearance doesn't help: people think him odd, eccentric, some kind of math or computer prodigy, maybe. John has heard about the other things people say, too, that he's most likely queer, a _homosexual._ Mostly, those assessments were muttered in a scandalized voice, came with raised eyebrows and the shaking of heads.

John twists his thumb over the head of his cock, shuddering. He doesn't want to think about the malicious gossip, he just needs to finally get off before he's getting sore. Nobody needs to know what he thinks about, and getting himself off while thinking about guys is probably better than actually doing something about it. He swallows, then he lets himself imagine long, pale fingers on his cock, stroking him, having that gentle voice in his ear, clutching his hands in the fabric of Harold's shirt. _Shit._ He barely has time to reach for some tissues from the nightstand before he's coming so hard that his hands are shaking with it.

–

The next day, John calls the number. He sits in the kitchen, listening to the noises of the couple next door fighting. Harold answers the phone with a _“Yes?”_ instead of a name. John wonders how many people have his phone number.

“Uhm, hi, it's John. We talked yesterday? I work for Mrs. Williams.”

“I remember,” Harold says. He sounds friendly, but then he doesn't say another word and John has to be the one to keep the conversation going.

John chews on his thumbnail. When he realizes, he puts his hand down on the desk, annoyed with himself. Why the hell is he so nervous, anyway? It's just a job. “If you still need someone to clean the house for you, I'd like to do that.”

“Excellent,” Harold says. “When can you start?”

John resists the temptation to say that he could come right over. “Uhm, dunno. Would tomorrow work for you? Afternoon, around three?”

“Sounds fine to me,” Harold says. His voice is nice, John thinks. Pleasant.

John tries to come up with something else to say. He wants to ask about the pay, find out if Harold was joking the day before, but it feels rude to ask when he hasn't even done any work yet. “I nearly finished my book,” he blurts, instead. It's not quite true: he has almost fifty more pages to go, but he can read those in a day if he has some time. “I, uhm. I was thinking I might start _Catch-22_ next.”

“You have excellent taste in literature, John,” Harold says. For all John can tell, he sounds completely serious.

_Maybe we can talk sometime, about books_ , John wants to say, but he already feels like he let the conversation go on for too long. Harold probably has work to get back to, and John is stealing his time. “Okay, I'll be over tomorrow, then,” John says.

“See you tomorrow, John,” Harold says.

John stares at the phone in his hand long after Harold hung up. He really wishes he said that he could start today.

–

Harold opens the door with a cordless phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. He motions John inside. John sets his backpack down on the kitchen table. The house is bright and spacious, with a generous living room full of comfortable looking furniture. The kitchen is painted yellow, the stove and countertops look perfectly new and polished, like they don't get used much.

“I'm not in New York,” Harold says on the phone. He turns to John and mouths ' _Sorry.'_

John makes an awkward gesture, trying to convey ' _It's fine_ ', but then just aimlessly waving his hand around. Harold paces, rubbing his temple like he's having a headache.

“It really doesn't matter where I am, all I am saying is that I can't go to the office because I'm not _in town._ I left this number with your secretary for emergencies. It doesn't _matter_ where I am, I'll be back in time to deal with whatever has come up. Look, Nathan, why don't you enjoy your honeymoon and we talk about this later.” He pauses. John can hear a voice at the other end, but can't make out any words. “I'm sure she is,” Harold says with a sour expression.

There is another pause. John feels like an intruder, so he busies himself by looking around the kitchen. There are boxes of tea stacked on a cupboard, expensive-looking Sencha green. John frowns at a collection of breakfast cereal next to the fridge, boxes of Froot Loops and cornflakes: bright neon colors, advertisements for a free plastic toy inside. Weird. He wouldn't have pegged Harold for a Froot Loop kinda guy.

“Yes, well. Enjoy Barcelona, then.” Harold pauses. After a moment, he says: “Yes, _Barbados_ , of course. Give Olivia my best.” He ends the call and scrubs a hand through his hair. Then, as if he only just remembered that John was there, he turns around and smiles at him. “John! Sorry, I had to take this.”

“No problem,” John says.

Harold points to the living room. “So, do you want the grand tour?”

John smiles.

–

John spends some time cleaning the kitchen and vacuuming the living room. Harold retreats to his study to work. When John is done and turns off the vacuum cleaner, he can hear music from Harold's room, some kind of opera. John straightens up the living room, dusts off all the shelves and unloads the dishwasher, then he walks over and knocks at the door. When nothing happens, John knocks again.

Harold appears after a moment, looking a little confused, like he was immersed in his work and didn't manage to draw himself back to reality yet. He looks at John, then at his watch. “Christ, it's late, just so you know, I don't expect you to clock so many hours every time. You are a minor, this is a summer job, there are _labor laws.”_ He looks pleased, though.

John shrugs, a little embarrassed. It's not like he has loads of stuff to get back to, and Harold's place is nice and calm and full of books.

Harold walks back to the kitchen with him. He takes his wallet from a jacket that hangs over a chair and produces a neat stack of bills that he hands to John.

“That's,” John says, stunned. The stack of bills in his hands is too thick; even without counting John can tell that the amount is more than what he usually earns in a _month._ “That's way too much,” he says.

Harold waves him off. “I approximated the amount of money Mrs. Williams pays you per hour, then added some more on top until I reached the amount she should _actually pay you_ , and then doubled that, true to my word.”

John stares at him. “My mother will think that I am dealing _drugs_ ,” he says.

Harold chuckles. He looks different when he laughs, more relaxed. It makes it easier for John to imagine him as a boy, bent over a book, pushing his glasses up his nose. He wonders what Harold was like as a teenager. It's not that he looks _old:_ not like the parents of some of his classmates who are starting to lose their hair and can barely climb the stairs without panting. Harold looks like John imagines grad students at university look like: carrying leather satchels and grading papers for their professors, messy hair and thickly rimmed glasses on their noses.

“Are you?” Harold asks, but he's still smiling.

“No,” John says. “And I don't know anyone who does, either,” he adds, quickly.

“This isn't an interrogation, John,” Harold says mildly. “Look, I made some money with a business I started with a friend, it's not like I can't afford to pay you decently. And you clearly have been scrubbing Mrs. Williams' tile for more than a summer without being properly reimbursed for your efforts. See it as the universe paying you back some of the money that it owes you.”

It seems wrong to take the money, somehow, when he just vacuumed and wiped down some tabletops, but at the same time John is already calculating what he can do with the extra cash, all the bills in the shoe box of his mom's closet they could pay with it.

Harold still stands there, looking completely indifferent. He honestly doesn't care, John thinks, and then has to wonder how that feels like, to know that you can spend money on something just because you want to. “Look, at least let me come in tomorrow and let me do some work on the garden, take care of the lawn, stuff like that.” John nods at the doors that lead outside. “You know there's an empty pool under that large plastic cover, right?”

“The thought did occur to me, but it seemed very far fetched.” Harold is definitely teasing him now, and John feels a little proud of the smirk that plays at the corner of Harold's mouth. _John_ put it there.

John takes half of the bills and gives the rest back. It's still a lot of money, and John feels a surge of excitement when he puts it into his backpack. “I'll be back tomorrow, get some more work done, then you can give me the rest if you want,” John says.

Harold takes the bills and puts them into a drawer. “I'm counting on it. I hear there is a pool in my backyard just waiting to be discovered,” Harold says.

John is grinning the entire way home.

–

_After the boy is gone, Harold spends a frustrating hour stalking Nathan and Olivia on all of their social network accounts: photos of colorful cocktails with bendy straws and shots of sunsets on Olivia's Instagram, ironic, cheesy status updates, lots of selfies of the two of them with sunglasses, looking blindingly happy._

_Harold closes his browser tab and goes into the kitchen to open the fridge and stare inside for a while. He has no idea what he thought it would be like: to get out of the city, take some time off, take a break. He has never taken a break in his life, went from college straight into starting his own firm with Nathan, and then there was always something to do for IFT, a fire to douse or an emergency to take care of or something new to develop. Harold had taken his working habits along with his pathetic, unrequited crush for his best friend right out of college and into his working life, and now it is biting him in the ass._

_He heats up some canned soup and takes a bottle of beer from the fridge. It's Nathan's favorite, he realizes: it's the only brand Harold ever buys in case Nathan will come over to raid his fridge. He sighs and puts the bottle back into the fridge, he suddenly doesn't have a taste for it anymore._

_Harold opens the drawer to take out a spoon when he sees the folded bills. He smiles. Well, at least he has managed to meet one interesting person in this extremely dull town._

–

When John comes back, his mother is in her bedroom, getting ready for work. John takes half of his earned money and puts it into her purse. He hopes that she doesn't remember the exact amount she came home with. He really doesn't want to explain why a cleaning job is earning him what feels like a small fortune.

The rest goes into an ugly porcelain pig that sits on the counter: the “college fund”, as his mom calls it. Even though she constantly drops change into it, John knows that the sum in his savings account is barely enough to last him the first few weeks of college, if it ever comes to that. He can't really hope for a scholarship at this point, his grades aren't anywhere close to remarkable and he has no talent for anything special – sports, music, science, or art. John has pretty much resigned himself to go looking for a job right after school, maybe at the community library or the animal shelter.

“I didn't know you work on Thursdays,” his mom says.

John turns around and kisses her on the cheek. “Hey, mom,” he says, stuffing the last ten dollar bill into the pig shaped savings tin. “I have a new job, actually. Mrs. Williams' neighbor asked me to clean the house for him. I started today.”

John sees her expression slide from happiness into concern. “Mr. Wren, isn't it? That man who recently moved here?”

“Yeah, that's him,” John says. “He's nice, and not particularly messy.” John itches to tell her about the money, to tell her that he can really make a difference for them, but something holds him back.

His mom smiles, but it seems forced. She pours herself a glass of water. “Stephanie told me that he bought one of those fancy houses at the edge of town.”

Stephanie, their nosy next-door neighbor, probably spent an afternoon with binoculars in her car while Harold was moving in and knows his shoe size, if he brought any pets, and probably his social security number.

“How did you get that job?” John's mom asks, sounding decidedly casual.

“He came to talk to me when I was at Mrs. Williams' house, actually. Asked me if I wanted to work for him.”

“Right,” she says. “So, you spent the whole afternoon today at his house?”

“He didn't ask me to stay that long, but I wanted to do a good job, you know?” John shrugs. “He's much nicer than Mrs. Williams, she always complains if I don't dust off every single inch of the house.”

His mom nods, a little absently. “He was there with you, then? This afternoon?”

The conversation feels weird to John, like his mom is asking about something else. “He was working, I didn't see much of him,” John says cautiously.

She takes her purse and packs an apple and a chocolate bar, then looks around for her keys.

“They're in your coat pocket,” John says.

His mother laughs. “Sure. Sorry, the night shifts are confusing my head, I don't seem to be able to remember anything.” She steps over to John, kisses the top of his head. She has to stand on her tiptoes to do it now, he's grown quite a bit. “Just be careful, John,” she says.

John looks at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, she looks like she is about to say something. Then a strange expression passes over her face, and she puts on a quick smile again. “Nothing. I'm glad you work so hard during your summer break, I really am. It's good to be disciplined, and to earn your own money. But promise me that you'll also have some fun, okay? Let me worry about earning the money. Maybe you could see some of the kids from school? That Logan boy, or the girl you like? Joss?”

John huffs. “Joss doesn't even know that I exist,” he says.

“Sure she does,” his mother says, ruffling his hair. “You're an amazing boy, I'm sure she has noticed you.” She looks at the kitchen clock. “I have to go,” she says, squeezing John's shoulder. “Dinner is in the fridge, and there's a little surprise in your room.” With that, she's on her way.

The surprise turns out to be a paperback copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ , the edges all soft and used, some notes written in the margins with thin pencil. His mom can't afford brand new books, but John likes the used ones better anyway: it feels like they're alive with someone else's story, their thoughts and feelings. It's nice to run your hands over the pages, knowing that someone else has touched them before. It makes you feel less alone.

–

As it turns out, Harold is a really great employer: he keeps paying John too much money, most of which John refuses on the grounds of Harold _giving him large sums completely at random._ John starts writing down the hours he worked in a small notebook, and then has Harold calculate his salary based on that. John still makes more money each hour than Logan does at the drugstore, or probably any other kid working summer jobs in this town.

Once John crosses his arms in front of his chest and tells Harold that while he might be poor, he is not a _charity case,_ and Harold raises his eyebrow the way he does when something unexpected happens. He disappears into his study for a bit after. John cleans the pool outside, wondering if he has offended Harold, just as the glass door opens and Harold brings out a huge glass pitcher with lemonade as a peace offering.

Harold always has food in his fridge that he offers to John, too: they share a pepperoni pizza one afternoon when it's raining, thick drops of water beating against the windows. Harold doesn't only have a lot of books in his house – sorted, hilariously, according to the Dewey Decimal System, with little white tags on the back that are neatly labeled like in a library – but also all kinds of electronics and computer equipment. Some things don't quite make sense to John, like the college-level calculus textbooks that Harold keeps on the coffee table, or the fact that there doesn't seem to be a single framed picture in the whole house: Harold certainly must have friends, family?

One day, while John is vacuuming the bedroom upstairs, he hits his shin on the corner of the dresser, cursing. While he still rubs his leg, he looks down at the drawer. It's not closed all the way, and John can just make out the shape of something colorful inside: a flash of lime green, and something pink. John's fingers rest on the edge of the drawer, itching. Carefully, he crouches down next to it, pulls it open a little wider and peeks inside. He nearly loses his balance at what he sees: the drawer is filled to the brim with toys, silicone cocks of different shapes and sizes, something sleek and black that looks like a bird's egg, leather straps, some weirdly-shaped things that John doesn't recognize. He swallows. His heart is beating all the way up into his throat. He reaches out a hand to touch one of the toys, a specimen in a color resembling human skin, with plastic veins on the surface.

“Found something that you like?” Harold asks from the doorway, and John slams the drawer shut on his own hand so hard that he nearly breaks his fingers.

–

“Keep the ice on it,” Harold says. He's pouring John lemonade in the kitchen like he didn't just catch him snooping around in his bedroom.

John keeps the ice pack on his hand, feeling embarrassed and stupid. “I'm really, really sorry, the drawer was open, I really just wanted to close it, I don't know what–”

“John,” Harold says softly. He pushes a glass of cold lemonade towards him. “It's fine. I know you didn't mean any harm. Let's forget this ever happened, shall we?” He reaches over and carefully lifts the ice pack from John's fingers. “How is the hand?”

John makes a fist, then stretches his fingers. “Fine,” he says, blushing.

“Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the hospital?”

_Yeah, because that is a conversation he really, really wants to have with his mom: thanks for picking me up at the hospital. What happened? Oh, I just snooped around Mr. Wren's sex toy collection and hurt myself, no big deal._ “Positive. It almost doesn't hurt anymore, it's just a bruise.”

“Alright then.” Harold smiles. “I think you've had enough excitement for one day, don't you? Why don't you call it a day, you can finish the floor upstairs the next time you come over.”

John looks at the drops of water that run off the cool glass. “I won't tell anyone, I promise,” he says quietly.

When he looks up, Harold looks puzzled. “Alright,” he says. “Just to be clear: you won't tell anyone what, exactly?”

John feels himself blushing up to the roots of his hair. “You know,” he says, because this is already bad enough without him spelling it out. “That you're gay.”

Harold blinks a few times behind his glasses. “What makes you think that?”

John presses the ice pack down on his hand some more, a little too hard. “Uhm. All of, you know.” He winces at the sound of his own voice, the clumsy phrasing. “All of that stuff. Upstairs.”

Now Harold looks like his face can't decide whether to be amused or sad. “Many men find anal penetration quite pleasurable,” he says, and John gapes at him. It's not just what he says, it's the _way_ he says it: like they're talking about books, the weather, like this is just another conversation people have over coffee. “It doesn't indicate a desire to sleep with men, necessarily,” Harold adds.

“Oh,” John says. He has no idea how to react to that. His face is burning, his skin feels hot all the way down his throat.

“Which is to say that you're not _wrong_ in your assessment,” Harold adds, gesticulating with his pale, elegant hands. “I _am_ gay. But the idea that certain sexual flavors correlate to sexual orientation is a myth.”

“So you're saying that straight guys use these kinds of toys, too?” John asks. It seems the safer option to ask about this instead of the other part of Harold's statement: _How did you know? Were you never interested in girls at all? What did your parents say?_ John can't get over the way Harold talks about being different like it is no big deal, like it doesn't matter at all.

“Certainly,” Harold says. “The prostate is an organ that is very sensitive to stimulation.”

John didn't think his face could get any hotter, but that sentence makes it feel like the sun is shining directly onto his ears, the back of his neck. “Oh,” John says again, stupidly. He remembers the drawings from health class, but nobody elaborated on _that._

“I apologize, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” Harold says. “But don't worry about guarding what you assume is the secret of my sexual orientation,” he adds, sounding amused. “I'm not exactly trying to hide it.”

_Why not_ , John wants to ask, and about a dozen other things. Instead, he just stares at his hands, thinking about what his mother said to him: _He was there with you, then? This afternoon?_ and _Just be careful._ Christ.

“John, are you alright?” Harold asks.

John puts the ice pack back on the table and gets his backpack. “Sure, fine.” He can't meet Harold's eyes. “I'll see you next week,” John says, and walks out of the door without looking back.

–

John waits until he hears his mom leave for her late shift. Then he stares at the ceiling, the sheets pulled up to his chin. He can't get the images from earlier out of his head, the brightly colored toys in the drawer, Harold's amused, relaxed expression. _The prostate is an organ that is very sensitive to stimulation._

John makes a frustrated noise and pushes the sheets down to pool around his knees. He is hard in his pajama pants, a wet spot of precome staining the fabric. He closes his eyes and tries to think of something else, but his desire is like a buzzing underneath his skin, impossible to ignore. Finally, he shimmies out of his pants and closes a hand around his cock. _Shit._

He can't help but imagine Harold, alone in his bed, using the toys on himself. Or maybe, John's mind supplies, he's not alone at all: maybe he has a boyfriend, a lover, someone who makes him gasp and shiver, someone who _fucks_ him. John makes a low sound in his throat, tugging at his cock. Harold with his soft, intelligent eyes, the confused expression on his face when he gets interrupted in the middle of his work. John has spent some of his breaks trying to look at Harold's mouth without getting caught: the amused slant of it, how soft his lips look.

John lets go of his cock and strokes over his balls, his breathing erratic. He shouldn't, he _shouldn't shouldn't shouldn't_ , but his body is aching and his mind is too far gone, anyway. He wonders how it feels to be fucked with a toy, one of those large, oddly shaped cocks. John moves his hand to his mouth to lick his index finger before letting it sneak lower, circling his hole. Something flutters in his chest like an anxious bird. He presses his finger against the resistance of the tight ring of muscle.

John wonders what it would be like to be spread out on Harold's large bed, with all the time in the world, having Harold lean over him, touch him. John pushes a finger in, experimentally, his eyelids fluttering. The muscle is tense against his fingertip, and the stretch is painful. He doesn't know how anything is supposed to fit into the tightness he feels, but John breathes through it, his cock hard and angry red, not deterred by the discomfort. John gets his left hand around his cock and strokes himself loosely. It feels a little off, but it's good, a counterpoint to the unpleasant stretch. He slowly pushes his finger in up to the knuckle, wincing. At the same time something about the stretch feels welcome, _good._ John moves his finger, his breath shuddering out of him. He doesn't even know what he's looking for, how it's supposed to feel.

Then something changes, he feels a different texture, a little lump under the tip of his finger. John pushes down and his body jerks, folding in on itself like a Swiss army knife. John is shivering, a sob shaking itself loose from the cavity of his chest. It's good, so good, even through the pain of opening himself up, the too-dry slide of his finger. John looks down at his hand, pushing up into his ass, his free hand jerking his cock with a desperate grip.

He feels vaguely sick with himself, ashamed and embarrassed, but he can't let go of the feeling, the white hot pleasure coiling at the base of his spine. Tears are streaming down his face and he is making little, terrified sobs, moving his finger and jerking himself off with his other hand. He comes with a shout, his cock spurting thick white come onto his stomach.

John is shaking when he removes his finger. He can't seem to stop crying. He goes to the bathroom to shower and then stands under the spray for a long time, sobs wrecking his body in waves, his forehead leaning against the cool tile.

–

“Christ, Reese, the Tai Chi group meets on Sundays, get a move on.”

Sameen runs past him, her ponytail swinging behind her head like a whip. A group of boys jump out of her path like flies scattering in the wind. She gives a huff and passes them easily. John has only been on his first round, warming himself up, but he instantly decides that a little more speed can't hurt.

It's not his usual running time, but he wanted to get some exercise in before driving over to Harold's place, clear his head a little. Some of the sports teams are practicing on the grounds: John has seen a few guys doing jumping jacks to warm themselves up, the cheerleaders are busy with their stretching exercises at the side of the playing field. Zoe does the splits without any visible difficulty. She is fiddling with her phone even while leaning into the stretch, looking bored. Her blue and white cheerleader skirt falls over her perfectly parted legs. She runs the yearbook basically by herself: John is pretty sure that there isn't a single dirty secret at the entire high school that Zoe Morgan doesn't know about.

Then John gets an elbow to the side and flinches from the impact, nearly falling over his own feet.

“Whoops,” Sameen says. John can't believe that she managed to circle around again already: he knows that she is the star of the Track and Field team, but that is really _fast._

“Maybe spend less time looking up cheerleader skirts and more time running!” She calls over her shoulder, passing him in her black tank top and tiny shorts. Alex Connor, one of their classmates with the IQ of a piece of sliced bread is catcalling her from the side on the field. Sameen flips him off without even looking. “Soccer is Football for whimps, Connor!”

John chuckles and speeds up to meet her. Her running pace is most people's sprinting speed. “I'm not creeping on the cheerleaders,” he says. It comes out a little strained. Fuck, she's in much better shape than he is.

“Sure you are. Literally everyone with a Y chromosome is creeping on the cheerleaders,” Sameen says. Her voice sounds absurdly casual, like she is used to talking while running at the speed of _light._ “Including Coach Snow, by the way.”

John makes a face. She turns to face him, her ponytail nearly slapping him in the face. “You're not trying out for track, are you?”

They run side by side around the field. John can hear the cheerleaders chanting in the distance. Zoe is balancing on top of a pyramid formation, three girls on the ground, two girls holding her up. She looks perfectly comfortable, her arms stretched out into the air like she isn't afraid of falling at all.

“Don't worry, not trying to steal your show,” John pants.

She laughs. “You're not a threat, Reese. You already look like you're going to have a heart attack any minute, and I should know: future pre-med track and all.”

John looks at her, surprised. “You want to be a doctor?”

“ _Surgeon_ ,” Sameen says.

They stop running after two more rounds, much to John's relief. John leans against the side of the bleachers, catching his breath. Sameen produces a water bottle and takes a sip before throwing it to him. John catches it and takes a large gulp.

“Actually, you're only a little pathetic,” she says, looking him up and down.

“Thank you?” John says.

Sameen gets a towel from her bag that she puts around her neck. John doesn't know why, she has barely worked up a sweat. “There's a party this weekend,” she says. She sounds a little annoyed, like socializing is a hassle. “You know Leon?”

John hands the water bottle back to her. “That kid from the math club who bets on everything?”

Sameen nods. “His parents are on vacation, so he has the house to himself. Saturday night, you should come by. I don't think he realizes that his math club friends are handing out fliers for this thing already, maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the _indoor pool._ ” Sameen makes her usual _people are dumb_ face. John knows that her father died in a car crash when she was little and that her family has been struggling to get by ever since. It's not a mystery why she is so driven to succeed in track: a scholarship is the fastest way to get out of this train wreck town and into a good college.

John blinks. “Sure, I'll see what I can do.”

“Yeah, consult your busy schedule, Reese,” Sameen says. “And it's not like I care, just so we're clear. See you when I see you.”

“Bye,” John says, to her already retreating back.

He can hear her threatening one of the douchebags who leers at her when she passes him, something about knocking his teeth out.

John sits down and wipes the sweat from his face. For some reason, he's smiling.

–

Harold opens the door seconds after the chime of the doorbell has been ringing through the house, as if he was already waiting in close distance next to the door. John feels awkward for storming out the week before: it seems childish now, embarrassing. He fiddles with the strap of his backpack. “Hey,” he says.

Harold smiles at him. “Hey yourself.” He scratches his neck, as close to a nervous habit John has ever seen on him. “Do you want to come in?”

That strikes John as an odd question.”Sure. I still work for you and everything,” he says.

That makes Harold smile. He steps aside, letting John in. “Actually, I wasn't sure if you would still want to. Your exit last week was rather abrupt.”

John feels his ears turning hot again. “Yeah, sorry about that.” He puts down his backpack and stands between living room and kitchen, shoving his hands into his pockets so he has something to do with them. “Can we talk, maybe?”

“Absolutely,” Harold says, gesturing to the kitchen table. He gets a soda can out of the fridge for John and puts it in front of him. John gladly opens it and drinks. Harold looks at him, not unfriendly.

“I thought about the things that you said,” John says. He's looking at the soda can in his hands, playing with the little metal ring on top. He feels a little dizzy when he realizes that he has no idea how to go on.

After a break, Harold says: “Anything that you thought about in particular?”

John has a sudden, hysterical impulse to tell Harold _everything._ He wants to talk about the way he feels when he is around Harold, happy and scared and somehow lighter, like he might float away at any moment. He wants to talk about Logan's nervous, careful hands and Ashley's impatience and the way John sometimes feels like he doesn't belong anywhere, with anyone. He wants to talk about the toys Harold keeps in his drawer, and what he does with them, and if he will let John _touch_ them, explain how they work–

John clears his throat. “How long have you known that you're,” his voice is shaky on the word. John swallows. “Gay?”

Harold doesn't seem fazed by the question. “When I was in school, I didn't give relationships much thought,” he says. His hands are folded on the table. John tries very hard not to look at them. “I was an introverted boy and lived in a very rural area, there wasn't too much chance to socialize unless one was actively trying. And I wasn't trying very hard, much the opposite.”

“Rural like this?” John asks, curious.

The corner of Harold's mouth twitches. “A little like this, yes. Then I went to college and had a very charismatic, charming roommate.” He smiles to himself like he made a very clever joke that John isn't privy to. John envies whoever it was that was able to put that look on Harold's face. He wonders if this is how he looks at Harold.

“Was he your first boyfriend?” John asks. He takes a quick sip from his soda, squirming around on his chair. He feels restless, keyed up. He doesn't even know what he wants to hear from Harold: to tell John that no, clearly, John is perfectly straight?

Harold presses his lips together. “No, he was exclusively interested in girls. And rather skilled at charming them,” Harold adds. He looks sad now, and John has to imagine him in his college dorm room, sitting alone at his desk while the boy he likes chases after girls.

“I'm sorry,” John says.

Harold blinks, a little confused, like he momentarily forgot that John was there. “Oh, don't be. He's married now, and I, well. There were other people, it wasn't supposed to be.”

“So, you're with someone right now?” John feels bad about saying it before the last word has even left his mouth. “I mean, that's pretty personal and really none of my business and you don't have to answer that at all,” he adds quickly.

Harold doesn't seem bothered. “It's fine, John. If I don't want to answer a question, I'll simply let you know. No, I'm not seeing anyone,” he says. He doesn't sound particularly happy or unhappy about it. “I spent a lot of time at work, I didn't get to meet to many people.” He tilts his head a little. “How about you, John?”

John shakes his head vehemently. “Nah, I don't have a girlfriend,” he says.

Infuriatingly, Harold doesn't say anything at all.

“And I don't, I mean.” John drums his fingers on the table, frustrated. “There's this boy, and we've been making out once, I guess.” There's a part of him that can't quite believe that he has said that, out loud, to someone else. If Harold tells anyone, if Harold tells his mom – “I mean you won't. This is like, a secret between us, isn't it?” John asks.

“I won't repeat any of the things you tell me in confidence to anyone else,” Harold says easily.

John nods, reassured. He doesn't know what he's doing. He shouldn't be _talking_ about this, making it even more real, but the longer he doesn't talk about it, the worse it gets. It's like that time when he fell down with his bike and scraped his knee and then was embarrassed to tell his mom, and a few days later the wound was infected and red and _hurt_. “I mean, I only ever had sex with girls,” John adds, quickly. He suddenly wonders if what he did with Logan counts as sex, and technically speaking, he only had sex with _one_ girl.

Harold just looks at John, like he's waiting for John to make whatever point he wants to make. If John only knew what that point _was._

“So I guess I'm mostly straight,” John says. “I mean. Almost completely. Maybe this is just, a teenager thing. A phase. How did you know it wasn't a phase for you?” John asks, glad to shift the focus back to Harold.

“When I've been attracted to someone - which didn't happen a lot, so the sample might not have any statistical significance - it was always a man,” Harold says. “The thing with labels is that they can be helpful, if you feel like you found one that fits you well, and talking in specific terms comes in handy when comparing experiences. But sometimes, labels can be pressuring and scary, too. For you, clearly the idea of labeling yourself anything but 'straight' is making you uncomfortable.”

John shrugs. “I just don't want to call myself something unless I'm sure. And, like, maybe I'm normal and just confused, because –”

John looks at Harold's raised eyebrow and mentally rewinds. Shit. “I didn't mean – I didn't mean that you're not _normal_ , I.” Okay, that's it. He's panicking. What the hell was he _thinking_.

“ _John_ ,” Harold says, but his voice sounds soft and compassionate, like John has told him some kind of sob story. “You should know that whatever you come to learn about yourself – if you find that you're attracted to girls, or boys, or both – these are all perfectly valid things to be and none of it should make you feel bad. It is not a question of normal versus pathological. Queerness is not a disease, and heterosexuality isn't the ideal you have to aspire to,” he says.

“There's this guy I really like,” John blurts. He wonders if Harold notices that John avoids the word “boy”: it seems odd to use that expression for Harold.

If Harold has thought as much, he doesn't show it. “Yes?” He prompts.

John shrugs. “But I am still, like. Attracted to girls. So how do I know that he's not just an exception or something?”

“It is possible to be attracted to more than one gender, to identify as bisexual or pansexual,” Harold says.

John frowns. “How do you know about these things? Nobody ever _talks_ about them.”

Harold drums his fingers on the tabletop. “Give me a moment,” he says, getting up and disappearing into the living room. John can hear him mumbling to himself for a moment, then Harold comes back and sets down a stack of books in front of John. John looks at the authors and titles: A novel by Oscar Wilde. Something called _De Profundis._ A slim, midnight blue book called _Death in Venice_. The last book Harold picked is a novel by an author named Christopher Isherwood.

“A particular favorite,” Harold says. “I think you might like to start with literary works before looking into non-fiction. Some queer history would be good to cover some ground there, I'd think, a few autobiographies. Works dealing with queer theory might be worth looking into, but I might have to make a list first, find a good place to start.”

John stares at him. The books are in good condition, obviously owned by someone who took care with them, but when John opens them and pages through them, the spines are also loose and flexible, like they were read a lot. He nods, a little shaky. “You don't have to,” John starts. He doesn't even know what he wants to say.

Harold smiles, like he understands. “I'll make a suggestion, if I may. I have lots and lots of work to do, so I'll be in my study the whole afternoon, anyway. I think the house is reasonably clean, so if you want, you can take the day off.”

John feels a little disappointed at the idea of leaving already, but he is also glad that the conversation is coming to an end. He needs to breathe, to think, to make sense of everything.

“Of course, you are welcome to stay and read here,” Harold says softly.

“I'd like that,” John says, a little too quickly.

Harold nods. “Well, there is food in the fridge if you want it, and you know your way around the house.” He makes his way to the back of the house. “If you have any questions, feel free to knock on the door.”

“Harold?” John asks. He is holding onto the stack of books like they are the only lifeline tethering him to the shore.

Harold turns around and meets his gaze.

“Thank you,” John croaks.

“Anytime, John,” Harold says.

–

_He doesn't get much work done that afternoon. Instead, Harold stares out of the window, trying to gather his thoughts. The things John has said all sound awfully familiar – from the uncertainty to the low current of shame beneath everything, the idea that maybe it was just an anomaly, a phase or a mood, some state that might pass._

_Harold wonders if he's misrepresenting himself: he wasn't exactly out and proud at college, much the opposite. He hasn't come out explicitly to Nathan, but then again, he had assumed he didn't have to – not after all of the time he spent hopelessly pining after him, not after the things that happened between them. In fact, Harold did have a reputation in college as a skirt-chaser: it's not that he didn't enjoy the company of women, dates and easy banter and holding hands on the campus grounds. It was just that he didn't have an incentive to let it go any further than that. He slept with a few girls during that time, made an effort to figure out what they liked, how he could make them feel good. The result was always the same: even with the prettiest, nicest of them he barely felt a spark of attraction, not to mention genuine arousal. He knew that he was capable of that, in theory: it only took Nathan bursting into the room after his shower with a towel slung low on his hips and his hair dripping with water for Harold to excuse himself awkwardly to take care of a very inappropriate erection._

_The irony was: the more reluctant Harold was to initiate sex with the girls he spent time with, the more he was surrounded by them. When Nathan asked him, baffled, what Harold's secret was, Harold considered asking him if he ever bothered to have a few actual conversations with his current belle of the week before he let the flirting tip over into semi-public makeouts. It seemed like many of the female friends he made were simply relieved to be able to talk to someone who wasn't just waiting for an opening to hit on them and take them to bed, and the girls from his classes were smart, driven, impressive._

_He can see Root in their place, a few years older, roaming the campus of a top university and putting all of her professors to shame. Harold finds sparkly pens and her handwritten notes all over his study, he wonders if she leaves her things there on purpose, to mark her territory. She had randomly shown up in his back yard, all wild hair and worn-out Converse sneakers. Harold had been coding a database, and she had simply climbed on the chair next to him and asked him what he was doing, apparently not concerned by his remarks that technically speaking, trespassing was a criminal offense and he should probably notify the authorities. Root just squinted at him with her clever eyes and said “You're weird, I like you.”_

_Since apparently there was no way of getting rid of her short of throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her back to her parents, Harold got her a soda and explained basic programming language for two hours. She showed up every other afternoon to do her homework on his terrace, and would only promise to stick to a regular schedule after Harold had agreed to teach her advanced Calculus every Tuesday. (“My parents won't let me take any advanced classes, even though I'm bored out of my mind. I'm the youngest person at high school already, it's not like I could stick out any more if I tried. Adults are the worst. No offense.”) Harold worries that her parents might be fictional: what parents let their teenage daughter roam freely around town and spend her afternoons in the company of somewhat suspiciously rich computer geniuses? Then again, the pathetic truth is: Root is pretty much the only friend Harold has right now._

–

John sits down on the couch and starts reading one of the books, _A Single Man_. Harold comes out of his study two hours later to make tea and putter around in the kitchen. He sets down a cup of hot chocolate on the table next to John before retreating again.

John stretches out on the couch. He likes the stillness of the house, the knowledge that Harold is right there, only one wall away. He sips his chocolate and reads.

A little after four in the afternoon, the doorbell rings.

“I apologize,” Harold says, emerging from his study with his usual, confused expression, “But it _is_ Tuesday.”

He opens the door to a girl looking twelve or thirteen. She throws her arms around him: small as she is, she just about ends up hugging his legs. Harold reaches down and carefully removes her arms. “Hello, Root.”

She beams at him, sauntering into the room. “Harold, I think we should cover Polynomials today. I feel like I really have a grip on Logarithmic functions by now, and–” She stops, looking at John.

John stares back. Oh god, does Harold have a _daughter_?

“Root, meet John, he works around the house this summer. John, meet Root. I am her _math tutor_ ,” Harold adds, wincing a little, like he can't quite believe what he is saying.

“I think it's more like a discussion between equals,” Root says. She marches into the kitchen and reaches for the Froot Loops.

“You pretended to flunk math so I would tutor you,” Harold says, deadpan.

“Ssh, let's not dwell on the past,” the girl says, pouring milk over her cereal. She walks back to the couch and sits down next to John. “You're not cleaning, you're reading,” she says, craning her head to see the title.

John closes the book and puts it face down on the coffee table. “I'm taking a break,” he says. He remembers the college-level calculus books. “Wait, how old are you? Why are you learning about advanced math?”

Root squints her eyes at him while stuffing her face with Froot Loops. “Age is just a _number_ ,” she says very seriously.

“Did you tell your parents where you were going?” Harold asks.

Root shrugs. “They're on holiday again, also they don't care.” She turns her head back to John. “You made out with Ashley Collins,” she says, suddenly.

“I – How do you know that, you're like, ten,” John sputters.

Root looks like she is about to empty the bowl of milk over his head. “I am twelve, smartass, and I know that because I have _friends._ ”

“Language, Root,” Harold chides, taking the calculus textbooks and motioning to his office. “One hour of Polynomials, then you go back home and do your homework and also eat dinner that isn't a bowl of Cheetos.”

“Gotta go, John,” Root says, with a very serious expression. “Enjoy your book.” With that, she hops off the couch and trails after a vaguely exasperated-looking Harold.

–

John reads for a while longer, then wipes down the counters in the kitchen and takes out the trash to at least make himself somehow useful. Then, he knocks on the door of the study.

“It's open!” Harold calls from inside.

When John opens the door, Harold and Root are bent over an open textbook, a yellow legal pad between them covered in mathematical formulas, graphs and two kinds of handwriting: a looping, slim cursive and round, bold lettering scrawled across the lines.

“I'm gonna go now,” John says, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Harold turns around in his chair. “I'll see you out,” he says.

“Why, does he get lost?” Root asks, clearly annoyed by the interruption. Harold shoots her a glare that would make John shrink about ten inches, but she just looks back at Harold with a kind of fierce determination that John has never seen in a kid.

“I'll be fine, I think,” John says. “Should I get you some more Froot Loops on the way? Maybe see if an episode of Sesame Street is on?”

Root's eyes are widening at that, and she starts getting out of her chair like she is going to _punch_ him.

“Okay, enough, both of you,” Harold says. He takes off his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “This isn't afternoon detention and I'm not a teacher who gets paid to make sure you don't tear each other's hair out. If you can't act civil around each other, I might have to reconsider my stance on letting you into my house on a regular basis.”

“I've seen a YouTube video on how to pick locks,” Root says helpfully. “With like, a hairpin.”

Harold stares at her, probably concerned about her criminal impulses. Then he turns to John. “Have a good day, John. You can borrow some of the books, if you like,” he adds and John smiles.

“Thanks. See you later,” John says. “Root.”

Root crosses her arms in front of her chest, pouting. John leaves them to it. He slides the Isherwood and the Oscar Wilde novel into his backpack on the way out.

–

John goes back to Harold's place on Thursday. He finishes cleaning the first floor, hastily vacuuming the bedroom and then scrubbing the bathroom tile. In his break, he joins Harold at the table on the terrace, looking for his page in _A Single Man._

Harold doesn't ask him about the books, which is a relief to John. His grades in lit class aren't exactly stellar: while he enjoys reading, he finds the analysis they do at school is tedious, and dry, and kind of pointless. Seriously, who cares whatever the author was thinking, the words are out there now, with their own meaning.

John has never read a book with a gay main character before, and he wants to talk about _that_ even less: how he feels like some of the things he reads are taken directly from his own mind, stray thoughts and images and feelings, and someone put them on paper, printed them in ink, out there for the whole world to see.

John reads his book and Harold types with dizzying speed on his laptop. Finally, Harold stops working and stretches his wrists. “You have to excuse Root, she is understandably frustrated by being a brilliant mind trapped in the body of a twelve year old,” Harold says. He is staring at some far away spot in the distance. “The world isn't exactly kind to girls, especially not those with talent and wit.”

John closes his book. He hadn't thought of it that way. “College-level calculus, hmh?” He says. It _is_ kind of impressive. John is decent at maths, but he sometimes struggles with the more advanced stuff.

Harold chuckles. “She could grasp quantum physics if she put her mind to it, I'm pretty sure,” he says, sounding proud. “Her parents are indifferent, constantly absent. I can't stand the idea that she'll be confined to this town forever, all that talent wasted.”

John feels a wave of affection for Harold, his frustration, the way he _cares._ “At least you're teaching her, that's something. She seems to adore you,” John says. He sounds envious, John thinks. All the words he says to Harold seem to be dripping with the things he feels, his jealousy and want tinting everything like a stained-glass window coloring the light. He hopes that Harold doesn't notice.

“With all the time she spends here, I am lucky if I don't get charged with child abduction anytime soon.” His face darkens. “Or other things.”

John opens his mouth to say something, that surely nobody could ever think that Harold could _harm_ somebody, with his gentle voice and kind eyes. Then John thinks about his mom, about the things he's overheard in conversations at the grocery store, at church, and lets it be. People think all kinds of awful stuff.

“There's some leftover pizza in the fridge, if I could interest you in that,” Harold says, apparently trying for a more cheerful topic.

John squints at him. “Don't you ever cook?” He asks. The amount of take out and pre-packaged meals he has seen in Harold's kitchen is striking. He can afford it, John guesses, but it's not exactly real _food._

“I heat things up,” Harold says. “Sometimes I stir them.”

John laughs. “Maybe I can cook for you sometime? As a thank you for letting me borrow all these books.”

Harold opens his mouth, probably to tell John that there's no need, but John interrupts him. “My mom is a really good cook, and I picked up some of it at least. You're still paying me, I can't really sit around and read all the time.”

“I'd be delighted, John,” Harold says. John feels a warm glow inside of his chest at the words, and basks in it for the rest of the evening.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't breathe. Harold's hand is warm against his cheek, and he is looking at John, really looking at him, not just through a rear view mirror or from the side. “I could make you feel better,” John says, before he even knows that he wants to. Or maybe he has known that he would do it all along, even in the car, or even before that: that if John ever got the chance to feel Harold's gaze on him, be the sole subject of his focus, he would do _anything._

In John's opinion, his mom is a little _too_ thrilled that John is invited to a party.

“There will be beer, probably drugs,” John says. During the week, it had seemed like a fun thing to do, something _normal_ , but now that it is Saturday, John only feels like staying in and reading.

“John, I know about parties. I was a teenager once,” his mom says, wiggling her eyebrows.

She must have been beautiful then, John thinks: she still is, with her curly hair and the freckles on her nose; she just looks so tired all of the time.

“I'm just saying, maybe you don't want to let me go. You're at work, I could get back at like. Two am. Three. That's way too late,” John tries, as a last ditch effort. He is probably the only teenager in existence who tries to get out of going to a party instead of trying to get permission to go.

His mother laughs. “I trust you to come home at a reasonable time, to not do drugs, and generally be safe.” She kisses the top of his head. “Also you'll probably just get bored and leave after an hour anyway.”

John makes a face. Fine, he'll give it a try. Maybe Logan will be there, so he has somebody to talk to, at least.

His mom is watching him. “John, you'd tell me if there was anything bothering you, right?”

“Sure,” John says. “I'm fine.”

She nods. “I just want you to know that you can come to me with anything. I won't be mad, I just want to know. About your life.”

“Okay,” John says. It's not like his life is particularly exciting, or something.

“Okay,” his mom says, and brushes his hair away from his face like she did when he was a little boy.

–

John can hear the music before he has even turned the corner, and when he gets closer to the house, he can already tell that Leon is in way over his head. His home looks like a frat house: a bunch of guys are barbecuing in the yard, up on the balcony a blonde girl is yelling something while waving a bottle of vodka around, some people are carrying beer kegs up the stairs. Through the glass doors, John can see that the living room has been turned into a dance floor, sweaty bodies grinding to the beat, the walls shivering with the sound. It's a miracle nobody has called the police yet, but given the sweet smell that is wafting from the open windows, it's probably for the better.

John feels like just turning around and walking off in the opposite direction, except then somebody grabs him by the sleeve.

“Man, I'm so glad to see you. Hold that for a sec?” Leon pushes something into John's arms that looks like a very ugly vase. “Hey, no open flames, Connor!”

Leon has various other items stuffed into the pockets of his pants and sweater: a wooden cigar box, a porcelain figurine, a pearl necklace. His face is blotchy red. “People,” he says, “are the worst. Like, I thought this would be fun, when in reality, I am just trying to stop everyone from doing too much damage – oh no, no, _no_!”

With that, he runs off in the direction of the house. John can't help but follow, ugly porcelain décor still clutched in his hands.

–

After helping Leon on his doomed quest to save some of the family heirlooms, John just drifts through the rooms, avoiding couples making out against walls and drunk party goers who look like they might vomit onto his shoes. Someone hands him a beer in a red plastic cup. A girl with a pink wig smiles at him. Then, he walks down a hallway and pushes open a glass door only to see Shaw emerging from the famous indoor pool. A few kids are floating around the sparkling turquoise surface on air mattresses, others are drinking beer and smoking pot in the beach chairs next to the pool. A group of girls that occupy what looks like a Jacuzzi untie the strings of their bikini tops to loud cheering of some very drunk members of the maths club.

Shaw sits down on the edge of the pool and waves at him, water running down her body in rivulets. John takes a towel from a stack in the corner and crouches down, handing it to her. She grins. “I didn't think you'd come, I've never seen you at one of these things before.”

John swallows when he realizes that she isn't wearing a bikini: she jumped into the pool in her black underwear. Her hair is smooth and shiny, flat against her head, and there are drops of water running over the bare skin of her throat.

“Yeah,” John croaks. God, he sounds like an _idiot._

Shaw dries off her face with the towel and then looks pointedly at his crotch, where John's hard-on is pretty hard to miss. “I wasn't sure if you're into girls,” she says.

“I _am,_ ” John sputters. “I am _really_ into girls, okay?”

She grins at that. “Sure, don't get your panties in a bunch, Reese.” She leans a little closer. John can see the swell of her breasts above the fabric of her bra, the droplets of water that run down her stomach, her naked thighs where her legs are dangling into the pool. He looks for something interesting on the walls, trying not to outright stare at her. Behind them, people are jumping into the pool and splashing water at each other, shrieking in delight.

“Are you into _me_?” Shaw asks.

John looks at her. There are drops of water clinging to her eyelashes. She is so staggeringly, absurdly beautiful that John wonders if maybe somebody spiked his drink. This can't be happening. He nods, helplessly.

“Good,” Shaw says, and leans in to kiss him. Her lips are cool against his, her hair dripping water over his clothes.

When they part, John is panting.

“Let's go upstairs,” Shaw says.

–

“Maybe we shouldn't –” John starts, but Shaw has already shoved him into the room and locked the door behind her. It's Leon's bedroom: there are posters of obscure bands on the wall and big stacks of books on the table. Sweaters and jeans are spread over the floor like he left in a hurry.

“You were saying?” She asks, leaning in to kiss him again. She has only toweled off her hair quickly, and it's thick and wet in John's hands. The shirt is soaked, showing the dark outline of her bra.

Then she smirks at John and pushes him down on the bed. She takes off her shirt and pants. John has an unpleasant flashback to his short encounter with Ashley, but Shaw doesn't expect him to just know things: she keeps talking to him, tells him where to put his hands, what to do next. She orders him to undress and then watches, taking her underwear off and climbing on top of him as soon as he's done. John is achingly hard when she puts the condom on him and then straddles him, sinking down onto his cock, inch by slow inch.

He shudders, grasping her hips. She takes his hands and places them over her breasts. She makes little pleased sighs when he strokes her nipples with his thumbs, like she's happy that he figured that out on his own. “Yeah, that feels good,” she says, and John shudders beneath her.

She starts moving on top of him, riding him with a lazy, pleased expression on her face. John tries really hard to think about something else than her weight on top of him, the feeling of her breasts in his hands, the way she clenches hot and perfect around him. She moans, deep and unashamed. Then she takes his hand and guides it between her legs.

“Fuck,” Shaw says, rubbing herself against his hand. She's incredibly wet beneath his fingers, and then her rhythm speeds up, her hips snapping against him. “Like that, yes, that's it,” she says. Her nails bite into his wrist when she comes.

John keeps touching her until she gently moves his hand away. She leans down to bite at his jaw, pleased. She is still rocking against him, and John strokes her back, lets her wet hair slide through his fingers. He is close, so close, and then Shaw pats his cheek and says: “Good boy.”

John's orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut. When he comes back to himself, Shaw has climbed off of him and disposed of the condom. She lies next to him, not so much cuddling as using him as an oversized pillow.

“Shit,” John says, with feeling, and she laughs.

“Looks like you _are_ into girls,” she says, without malice.

“Looks like it.” John puts an arm around her. For a moment, he thinks that she will punch him, but instead she gives him a mildly angry glare – _this doesn't mean that we're in a relationship now_ – and tugs at his free hand. “More?” John asks.

“Do you need, like, a written invitation?” Shaw asks, but the effect of her sarcasm is lost a little when he puts his hand between her legs and the last word gets lost in a gasp.

He is better at it, this time, now that he knows what she likes. She hides her face against his shoulder and doesn't say anything at all.

–

John is on his way out when he hears a familiar voice.

“I didn't _sneak in_ , I walked through the front door like everyone else.”

“My parents are going to kill me when they find out that a ten year old was at this party –”

“I am _twelve_ , how do you morons keep getting that wrong?”

He turns a corner to see Root, her arms crossed over her chest and staring up at Leon with a fierce expression on her face. Leon reaches for her arm. “Look, I will put you in a cab right now,” he says. She takes a step back and glares at him. Her cheeks are burning, she looks furious.

“I already called someone to get me. This party is lame anyway.” With that, she storms out, but not without kicking John's leg on the way.

“Ow! What did I ever do to you?” He calls after her. She wears a skirt and a glittery crop top, her curls bounce on her head when she stomps out.

“Do you _know_ her?” Leon asks.

John groans and goes after her.

–

Root is sulking on the picket fence next door, looking down the street. At least she isn't getting into any more trouble, John thinks, but he feels bad just letting her wait all by herself. “Hey.”

She looks at him and rolls her eyes. “Just leave me alone, okay? My ride will be here soon.”

John leans against the fence, keeping some distance between them. He wants to ask if there's really someone coming or if she just wanted to get out of there, but if he does, he will probably get punched for real. He remembers what Harold says, about Root having a hard time because she's a kid, a girl, because she can't connect to her peers and adults find her weird. John can relate.

“Leon just panicked, you know? He's not a bad guy,” John says.

Root huffs, like she disagrees. She kicks her feet and stares down at the sidewalk like _that_ is responsible for ruining her night, too, every single crack and stone. “Yeah, I'm a _child,_ I know, everyone keeps telling me.”

They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of the party. It's dark, the air thick and humid. When John looks up, he can see glittering stars sprayed over the night sky.

“His parents will ground him for life when they come back,” John says.

Root sniffles a little. John makes a point of not looking at her. If she's crying, she is probably feeling bad enough already. “You think?” She asks, her voice small. It's the first time that she sounds like a child to him.

“Yeah, sure,” John says. “He can count himself lucky if he gets to leave the house anytime soon, and I'm not talking, like, Winter Formal. I'm talking _Prom_.”

That makes her laugh. A car pulls up to them, and for a moment John is blinded by the headlights. Then the door opens and Harold steps out. _Oh._ Root runs over to hug him. Harold pats her hair awkwardly, looking up at the house where the party is still in full swing. “We will have to talk about this,” Harold says.

Root lets go of his legs and walks around to sit in the passenger seat. Then Harold spots John. He smiles. “Are you going back in or can I offer you a ride home?”

John is suddenly very aware of how he looks: his shirt hastily buttoned, his hair mussed up, smelling like alcohol and pot. “I, uhm. No, I was going to go home. I can walk though,” he adds quickly.

“Get in,” Harold says with a smirk.

John smiles and gets into the car.

–

“You didn't tell your babysitter where you were going?” Harold asks, incredulous.

Root fiddles with the radio, switching from station to station. The static between the music crackles in the air. “Sophia is an idiot, clearly, when the person she's supposed to be looking after can climb out of the bathroom window and she doesn't even notice.”

Harold takes a left turn. Everything looks different at night, even buildings and streets that are familiar to John. It's like these dreams you have when you know where you are, but everything is just a little off, he thinks, like a cardboard cutout, a ghost town.

“Please stop climbing out of bathroom windows,” Harold says.

Root finds a song that she likes and turns up the volume. Then her face brightens. “You know, if you let me stay with you, we could do some more maths tomorrow. I could sleep in the guest room. I can be really quiet, I promise you won't even know I'm there.”

John looks at Harold's face in the rear view mirror, the way he presses his lips together. “Root, you can't stay with me, you know that,” he says softly.

Root crosses her arms over her chest. “Sure, whatever,” she says, but her voice is shaky.

“We have a couch,” John says, stupidly. “I mean. The apartment is really small, but like. My mom is nice, and if you don't feel like staying alone sometime. We have a couch.”

Root turns to glare at him. “I wasn't talking to _you_ ,” she hisses. “Also no, ugh.”

When they stop at the next red light, Harold meets John's eyes in the rear view mirror. John can't read the expression on his face, and then the light changes to green and Harold turns his attention back to the road.

–

After they drop off Root at home, John gets out of the car and gets into the passenger seat. He tells Harold his address and then stares out of the windshield for a while. Harold lowers the volume on the radio. “Did you have a good time?”

It sounds genuine, not like Harold thinks it was a bad idea to go. John doesn't know why he cares so much what Harold thinks about him. “It was okay,” John says. He suddenly wonders if Harold can smell sex on him, if it's really obvious how John spent the evening. It makes him feel exposed, but also giddy, reckless.

“I'm glad you stayed with her,” Harold says. He looks awake, put together, not like Root's call woke him up. John wonders if he ever sleeps at all or if he just walks around the house at night, shelving books and typing at his laptop, waiting for the sun to rise.

“No problem. I didn't want her to get into trouble. Well. Any more trouble.”

Harold chuckles, a soft, lovely noise that John wants to close his palm around, feel against his skin.

“Good luck trying to keep her out of trouble. If you find a way that works, let me know.”

John swallows. His mouth is dry, and he's suddenly very aware that he's alone in the car with Harold. He could spend the rest of the night like this, driving around aimlessly, listening to Harold's voice. John doesn't want to go home, and he doesn't want to talk about Root anymore.

“You don't have to be so nice to me, you know. With the books and the –” John waves his hand around, unsure how to say it. “Driving me home,” he finally says.

Then Harold's gaze is on him again, and John feels like the air is too thick to breathe. It's making him lightheaded. He is disappointed that Root doesn't live further away, that they didn't have to take more of a detour. John recognizes the houses of his neighborhood already, it's only a few more streets until he's home.

“It's no trouble at all,” Harold says.

John takes a breath and then puts his hand on Harold's thigh. He feels the warmth of his skin even through the fabric. His heart is hammering in his chest, a desperate staccato rhythm. He thinks of Shaw, how she just takes what she wants. Maybe he can be like that, too.

Harold shifts gears and then reaches for John's hand. For a brief, hysterical moment John thinks that Harold will run his fingers over the back of John's hand, or move it up to his mouth and kiss it. John shudders. Harold takes John's hand and removes it from his leg without even looking.

“You'll feel differently about this tomorrow,” he says simply.

John curls his hand into a fist and stares out of the window. There are hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes, and he has no idea why.

–

“Thanks for the ride,” John says when Harold stops the car just outside of the apartment complex John lives in. He manages a weak smile and reaches for the door.

“Is something wrong?” Harold asks. He doesn't turn off the engine, just turns in his seat so he can look at John.

John bites his lip. “You can't let her stay over because she's a kid,” John says, “because she has a babysitter waiting for her.”

The streetlights are reflecting on Harold's wire-rimmed glasses. “Root is at an age where she doesn't always know what's good for her,” he says. “And as it is, I can't very well have a child spend the night at my apartment, her parents –”

“So she can't make her own choices?” John asks, suddenly angry.

Harold raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn't say that. I said that she might not know what choices are best for her, and how they influence herself and others.”

“But you do?” John asks.

Harold tilts his head a little, infuriatingly calm. “I know that it is not in her best interest to spend the night at my house. Also that it might be more beneficial to socialize with friends her age, but there isn't much I can do about it.”

John opens the door. “I'm just saying, maybe you should respect her choices,” he says.

“I didn't know you felt so strongly about Root's autonomy,” Harold says.

“Thanks for taking me home,” John says. He lets the door fall shut and stalks off towards the house.

–

_He should have seen it coming: John, so happy that he has someone to talk to about his struggles, has promptly projected his confused romantic feelings on Harold. It doesn't help that Harold feels a genuine warmth towards him, a kind of pride that goes beyond compassion. But all of this, Harold reminds himself, isn't about him at all – John simply looks for affection wherever he can find it, and if Harold were to give in to John's clumsy flirting, well. Harold shouldn't even be considering it. A teenager in the middle of his confused, sexual awakening, as if Harold didn't have enough problems of his own to work out._

_Still, when he watches John take off towards the house, Harold can still hear John's voice from the backseat, the unexpected olive branch he has extended to Root – generosity, Harold thinks, a surprising thing to see in a young man who hasn't been dealt the easiest cards in life. Harold can still feel the warmth of John's palm through the fabric of his pants. He shakes the thought off and starts the engine._

__

All John wants is to shower and sleep, forget that the night ever happened. Well, not the first part, that was nice, but definitely the part where he started to argue with Harold. He doesn't know why he got so angry: it's true, Root hasn't done very much to make him like her, but maybe that has never been the issue at all. Maybe John is just mad that Harold didn't kiss him.

The light is on in the kitchen. When John comes in, his mom is sitting at the kitchen table with her hands folded in front of her.

“Hey, did something happen?” John asks, suddenly worried. He walks over to kiss her on the cheek, but she just looks at him, sad and _disappointed._

“John, we need to talk. Please sit down.”

John sits down in the chair across from her. “Mom? What's going on?”

“I saw you get out of the car,” his mother says. She seems like she's choosing her words very deliberately. “You were with Mr. Wren.”

It seems odd that she calls Harold that: _Mr. Wren._ It makes him sound like a high school teacher: Mr. Wren, Biology and Maths.

“Oh, yes, he drove me home, I was just –”

“You said that you were going to a party,” his mom says. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Care to explain that?”

John blinks. “I was at that party, Harold just drove me home.” John immediately knows that he has said something wrong: his mom looks like John just told her that he's doing drugs.

“ _Harold_ has picked you up in his car to drive you four blocks?” His mom asks. “I'm not stupid, John, I know that you didn't go to any party tonight.”

“I'm telling the truth!” John says, his voice echoing too loudly in the small kitchen. Well, their neighbors can listen to _their_ fighting for a change. “I was at the party, and Root wanted to leave, and I didn't want her to wait all by herself –”

If anything, that seems to alarm his mother even more. “Are you saying that Root, little, twelve year old Root, was there with you?”

“She snuck in, okay? Leon kicked her out as soon as he realized that she was there, I just made sure that she got home okay –”

“Who picked her up?” His mom asks. “Her parents are on a business trip, so who took her home? God, I can't believe those people, taking off and leaving their child alone.”

John doesn't want to have this conversation. He doesn't want to talk about Root or Harold; everything is confusing enough already. “Harold picked her up and drove her home.”

“Why in the _world_ ,” his mother starts, before stopping herself. “You know what, don't tell me. This is about you, anyway. I want to know if you lied to me so you could visit Mr. Wren.”

“No!” John says. “Why would I do that? He was just being nice, mom, it doesn't mean anything – ”

“Then why do you have that guilty look written all over your face, John? Is it because of something that happened?”

John feels like somebody is punching him into the chest, one breath at a time. “I am not lying to you, mom! I went to the party, and then I wanted to make sure that Root was okay, and Harold drove me home.”

His mom is fidgeting, nervously playing around with her hands. “John, has _Harold_ ever asked something of you that made you uncomfortable? Did he ever try to touch you?”

John opens his mouth and then closes it again when he realizes that he has no idea how to react to that. _No, mom, it was the opposite way around, I wanted him to touch me, but he didn't go for it._

“I'm just cleaning his house, mom, okay? That's all it is.” John can feel himself blush. He hates lying to his mom, but what is he supposed to say? _I think I might be into guys and Harold is helping me to figure it out? I can talk to him about things I can't discuss with anyone else? I want him to touch me, and kiss me, and he thinks I'm just a kid?_

“I think you should quit that job,” his mother says, nodding to herself. “Let me worry about the money. I don't want you spending all of this time working when you could be enjoying your summer –”

“Why not?” John is aware that he's raising his voice, but he just can't seem to stop. “Harold has done nothing wrong, mom, he's just being nice.”

She looks at him, her lips pressed together into a resentful line. “Promise me that you won't work for him anymore.”

John feels like he's going to throw up. This can't be real: his mom can't seriously be asking him to stop visiting Harold. The time John has spent at his house, curled up on the couch or sitting outside with him in the shade, has been the best thing about his entire summer. He can't just _stop._

“Mom, please –”

“Promise, John. I'm sorry, but I can't let this happen.”

“You don't even know what you're talking about!” John snaps, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Shit. The last conversation they had was John being pissed at Harold for... what? Not leaning over and kissing him?

“Mom, I _didn't lie_ , and I don't want to stop working for Harold. Look, I don't know what you've heard about him, but it's not like that.”

“I think this looks bad enough without adding any of the rumors circulating about this man,” she says. John doesn't know what she means by that, but he's afraid to ask.

“Look, you don't have to worry, okay? It's just a job.” John takes a deep breath. It's his _mom._ “But if you want me to quit, I will, okay?”

He looks at her, biting his lip. She looks pale and tired, like a ghost in a lilac blouse. John imagines her looking out of the window, seeing him get out of a strange man's car. Does she think that Harold is _molesting_ John? It seems absurd to assume that Harold would hurt him, or _Root:_ Harold adores her, and he seems to be the only adult in her life who actually cares about her or her future.

John's mom stares down at the tabletop. “God, I wish your dad was here,” she says. “I always knew that it could be like this, that he might not come back from a tour, but then.” She stops herself, tears shining in her eyes.

“Then he came back, and you lost him anyway,” John says numbly.

She nods, blinking rapidly. “ _We_ lost him, John. And I always think if you had grown up having a father, maybe things would have turned out differently for you.”

“This isn't about dad,” John says, because it _isn't._

His mom nods, but she looks like she's not listening to him at all. Then she looks up at him: “I want you to quit that job. And you're staying at home next weekend, you can't go out. Look, I want to believe that you're telling me the truth about this party, I really do. But we need to talk about these things more, and you can't just... get into strange men's cars without telling me.”

John opens his mouth to say that Harold isn't a _stranger._ Then he thinks about the things he didn't tell her: the man at the truck stop, that time he made out with Logan in the car. She's right, John has been keeping some things to himself. Maybe if he had talked about Harold more, all the things he's doing for John, she wouldn't have so much reason to worry. Then again, she'd worry about other things if John told her what's really bothering him.

“Okay,” John says. There's really not much else that he can say. “Okay.” He reaches out to touch her hands.

She lets him. “I'm just trying to keep you safe, John,” she says.

“I didn't lie to you,” John says, desperately. _About that, at least._

His mother looks at him. She can always call his bluff. “Go to your room and get some sleep, okay?”

–

When his mom suggests that they drive to Mr. Wren's house the next afternoon, John assumes that he is supposed to tell Harold in person that John won't be working for him anymore. Instead, his mom parks the car, grabs her purse and tells him to wait before making her way to Harold's front door.

John stares out of the car window in horror while his mom rings the doorbell. Harold opens the door after a moment. He looks a little confused, like he has been interrupted in the middle of a project. John tries to see him with his mother's eyes: the friendly smile, his hair sticking up (he always runs his hands through it, John thinks) the waistcoat over the white shirt, cuff links undone. John wonders what she sees in the soft expression of his eyes, his precise vowels.

John's mom walks straight past him, and Harold closes the door behind her.

John is out of his seat and running towards the house before he has decided if he _should._ The kitchen window is open, and John can hear voices inside. He crouches down beneath it and listens.

“... acting completely inappropriate, and I will not let this happen, Mr. Wren,” John's mom says inside.

John flinches at her tone: she sounds like she wants to _punch_ Harold, her voice just short of yelling.

“I apologize, I was assuming that you knew that I had offered John a job, and that you had given him permission. I should have made sure that was the case,” Harold says.

“Of course I _knew_ he was working here, I'm not completely oblivious about my own son's life,” his mom says, sharp and cold and _pissed._ “There's a difference between a summer job at your house and driving him home in your car.”

“I didn't mean to imply that –” Harold starts, but then stops himself, probably realizing that there's no point. He has lost the argument before it even started. “I may have overstepped when I offered to take him home.”

“Oh, do you think?” John's mom asks, all fake concern. “Do you think you're overstepping with little Root, too? Do her parents know where she spends her time when they're not here?”

John presses his hands against the brick wall. He wants to go inside, to stop them from fighting, but he knows that anything he could say would probably make it worse.

“Frankly, I don't think that's any of your business, Mrs. Reese,” Harold says. He sounds polite, but there is something else simmering beneath the calmness of his voice.

“Well, my son _is_ my business. And I don't know you, or what you're looking for in this town. But if you think that I can't support my family without sending my son out to _mow your lawn_ , you're mistaken. As of today, John doesn't work for you anymore.”

There is a moment of silence. Then, John hears the sound of a drawer being opened. “I wasn't suggesting that you can't support your family,” Harold says, more gently. “I think John is trying his best to help, and that this job was a way for him to do it. I think that John is an extraordinary young man and I have no other intention than to make sure that he succeeds.”

John feels his heart almost beating out of his chest.

“You don't know him,” his mother says. “And if you want to do something that benefits him, how about you keep your distance, that would be a good start.”

“I haven't paid John for the last week,” Harold says.

John frowns. Harold always pays him at the end of the day, what is he talking about? Oh. Oh no.

“Keep your money, Mr. Wren,” his mom says coolly. She might have as well backhanded him across the face.

John realizes a second later that the conversation is over for her, and runs back to the car. He falls into the passenger seat, panting, just as the door opens.

Harold looks after her, a stack of bills still in his hand. Then he sees John in the car. John quickly looks away.

His mom gets into the car and starts the engine. “Did you get a good impression of the conversation from under the window or should I repeat anything?” she asks.

John swallows. “I'm sorry,” he says.

She pulls into the street, hands clasped tightly on the steering wheel. “Does he still owe you money?”

For a bright, feverish moment John considers to lie: he already has, by omission, given her half-truths and left her in the dark. An outright lie is just a technicality at this point. Then he looks at her, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, the determined expression in her eyes. She loves him with a ferocity that scares him sometimes. “No,” John finally says. “I think he was trying to do something nice for us.”

“Well, we don't need anyone's charity, John. That's not being nice, it's being condescending.”

John nods and stares out of the window, the trees and houses passing them by.

“I saved up quite a bit, maybe you can take a few weekends off,” John says quietly.

His mom reaches over to squeeze his hand, a quick, reassuring gesture. John wonders how long the money he made working for Harold would last them. He knows that it's probably not a whole lot.

“Put it into the college fund,” his mom says. “You worked to earn it, it's yours. Let me worry about the rest.”

When John comes back into his room, _A Single Man_ is still sitting on his nightstand. John falls down on the bed and stares at the ceiling until the room turns dark.

\--

John is in the middle of a set of calculus problems when his mother knocks and opens the door.

“There's a _girl_ here to see you?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “She's very pretty.”

John stares at her, his pencil hovering in the air. “Uhm,” he says.

“She says that her name is Zoe. It's about the yearbook, apparently? I didn't know you were involved in that.”

Zoe's curly hair appears next to his mom's shoulder. She leans against the door frame in a white blouse and a dark blue skirt, smiling broadly. “John! Did you forget we're meeting today?” She chuckles, turning to his mom. “He takes his schoolwork so seriously, but I always say: extracurriculars are important, too. They show character, colleges _love_ that.”

John blinks, stunned. He has no idea what's going on: he hasn't contributed as much as a scrap of paper to the yearbook, and seeing Zoe Morgan in his home is just completely unreal.

His mom laughs, delighted. “That's a very sensible thing to say, Zoe. Are you sure that I can't offer you something to drink?”

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Reese, maybe some other time? We should really get going, I'm sure that the others are waiting already. _John,_ ” she adds, her eyes widening a little.

“Sure, of course,” John says, grabbing his backpack from the floor. Hopefully his mom will just think that he's acting like an idiot because he has a crush on Zoe, not because he has _no earthly idea what she's talking about._

“You can visit us anytime!” His mom calls when they're leaving.

“Boy, she really wants you to get a girlfriend,” Zoe mutters, pulling him along by the elbow.

–

John gets his bike and then struggles to keep up with Zoe. “Where are we going? Why am I in the yearbook club now?”

“You'll see!” She calls back, not slowing down one bit. “And also you're not, you're useless!”

John shakes his head. He has no idea when his life got this weird.

They turn a corner and Zoe stops and chains her bike to a fence. John blinks. He knows the neighborhood: Zoe is walking up straight to Harold's house.

“Are you coming?” she calls over her shoulder.

John is in _so much trouble._

–

Harold opens the door and looks as surprised as John feels.

“Hello, Mr. Wren,” Zoe says, and walks straight past him to the living room.

Harold and John are left staring at each other.

“I didn't –” John says. “Zoe brought me here, I didn't. I am sorry about my mom.”

Harold looks like he just thought of something. “Root!” He calls into the living room. “What did you do?”

–

Sitting on the couch with Zoe and Root while Harold paces in front of them, occasionally taking off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, is probably the most awkward thing that has ever happened to John.

“Let me get this straight,” Harold says.

Root chuckles. Harold throws her a glare that makes her close her mouth immediately. It's a neat trick, John thinks.

“Zoe, did you lie to John's mother to bring him here?”

“I didn't lie, Mr. Wren,” Zoe says, bored. She doesn't look up from her phone. “I just decided that he's in the yearbook club now, and Root said that the yearbook club could meet up here, so: John coming with me to work on the yearbook? Not an actual _lie_.” She looks up to throw a menacing glance at John. “Although if you touch anything or make any stupid suggestions, I will staple your thumbs to the table.”

“I don't want to work on the yearbook!?” John exclaims, because apparently that hasn't been sufficiently established.

Harold stares at Zoe. “Who _are_ you?“, he finally says, a little desperate.

Zoe shrugs. “Root asks me for a favor, I don't ask questions.”

Harold turns to Root. “I don't understand how you're involved in all of this.”

“Well, clearly John's mom has no idea who you are,” Root says. “I have no idea why you let her walk all over you like that, actually, when she clearly –”

“You were _here_?” John asks. “What the – do you _live_ here?”

“That's really rich coming from _you_ ,” Root snaps. She turns to Harold like she expects a reprimand, but Harold is staring at something else, his mouth pressed firmly into a miserable line.

John follows his gaze to the television behind them, where some celebrity magazine is showing footage of a couple at an airport being swarmed by paparazzi.

Root frowns. “Harold?” She asks, her voice softer than John has ever heard her.

Harold reaches for the remote on the coffee table and turns up the volume. On the screen, the man is pushing his blond fringe out of his eyes. He holds the hand of a slender brunette who has a pair of sunglasses pushed over her hair, a diamond sparkling on her hand. The caption says “Nathan Ingram Returns From His Romantic Honeymoon: Are The Playboy Days Finally Over?”

The reporters are crowding them while they wait for a taxi, but Ingram doesn't seem bothered: he smiles jovially, winking at a female reporter who asks him if he had a good time.

“Olivia, what do you say to the people who claim that you only married Nathan for his money?”

The woman laughs, exposing two rows of perfect, white teeth. She clings to his arm, playfully resting her chin on his shoulder. In her heels they are almost the same height. “I didn't marry him for his money, I married him for his looks,” she says. The crowd laughs. Ingram presses a kiss against her forehead.

Harold presses a button and the screen goes dark.

“Who is that? Do you know them?” Root asks.

Harold looks like somebody punched him in the stomach. “Excuse me for just a second,” he says, and then walks over to his study, closing the door behind him.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Root says.

“Language,” John admonishes absently.

–

_There was a part of him that truly believed that he could recover by hiding in a desert town for a while and refusing to deal with the Nathan-shaped hole in his heart._

_Then again, Harold has always been extremely good at deceiving himself._

__

Harold stays in his study for twenty whole minutes. Root does her homework with a look of utter disgust on her face (“A reasonably intelligent hedgehog could answer this, _god._ ”) and Zoe does something on her phone and occasionally smirks at the screen, which is vaguely unsettling.

Finally, John snaps and walks over, rapping his knuckles against the door. “Did you escape through the window?” John asks.

There is the shuffling of footsteps, then the door opens and Harold gestures him in. His hair is in disarray and he's looking even more confused than usual.

He closes the door behind John when the phone on his desk rings. Harold picks up. “Yes?”

John is standing close enough that he can hear the voice on the line. It's _Zoe._

“ _Okay, it's my responsibility Reese is here, so you two better not get up to any funny business alone in that room.”_

John blushes furiously. Harold's eyes widen. “How can you even –” He starts.

“ _Yes, whatever, just a fair warning, Mr. Wren, I'm watching you.”_

“How did you get this _number_?” Harold asks, a little hysterical. The line goes dead.

“She's even scarier up close,” John says, shaking his head. “She used to date this guy from our class, huge football star and all that jazz, and when he broke up with her he just. Disappeared. There are rumors he ended up in a prison in Tijuana for a bogus drug charge.”

Harold stares at John. “Are you saying the teenage girl in my living room sent somebody to a Mexican prison?”

John shrugs. “Look at her and tell me she _wouldn't_.”

“Fair enough,” Harold mutters. He motions towards a chair next to the desk. “Sit, please.”

John sits down and folds his hands in his lap. He doesn't really know what he's supposed to say: he just wanted to check on Harold. “Can I ask you about these people on TV?”

Harold sinks down in his chair. He looks at the messy tabletop with great concentration. “Nathan is my business partner,” he says.

“Oh?” John has no idea what to do with that. “Did you guys like... have a fight?”

“What makes you say that?” Harold asks, a little perplexed.

“You didn't seem too happy to see him,” John says. “Also he's in New York and you're, well, here.”

Harold manages a bitter smile. John's chest aches with sympathy: Harold looks _miserable._

“You're quite right, John. Not about the fight, we didn't... let's say that I wanted some space for a while, so I came here. I just didn't expect to see him. I guess I tried a little too hard not to think about it.”

“You can't really have more space than you do here. If there's a bright center to the universe –”

“-- you're on the planet that it's farthest from,” Harold finishes. He smiles a little as he says it, tilting his head in a way that makes John's stomach flip. “That would make you Luke Skywalker, I guess.”

John huffs. “Yeah, with the exception that he got off the planet eventually. Pretty sure that's not in the cards for me anytime soon.”

That seems to shake Harold out of his current funk. “Why would you say that, John? You have every chance to leave this town and do something extraordinary.”

“Sure,” John says without really meaning it. Harold is just trying to be nice: he's smart, rich and successful, he probably had no problems getting accepted into a college when he was John's age. Even if John gets the grades, there's still the question of money: he can't let his mom work herself into the ground doing three jobs at once just to put him through college.

Harold turns around to face him. “You are very lucky, John: you have a mother who loves you and who will fight ferociously for your well-being. You're smart, hardworking, determined and compassionate. You have all the skills you need to succeed, if you only give yourself the chance to.”

“I want to keep visiting you,” John blurts out. Harold looks a bit sad again at that, but John can't help it: he needs to say this, or it will burn up his chest from the inside. “I know it's probably not right if I don't tell my mom the whole truth, but she asked me to stop working for you, and I will. I just really want to spend time here,” John adds, a little desperately.

Harold has the same look on his face he had when he was about to tell Root no, and John can't bear it. “John,” he says, very gently.

“My mom doesn't _know_ you,” John says. “She thinks you might be bad for me, but that's not – it's the opposite, and I can't explain that to her without telling her everything else, too, and I don't know if I can do that yet.”

Harold sighs. “John, you're always welcome here, but if this is making things difficult between your mother and yourself, I'd rather you didn't visit me, to be quite honest.”

John feels his face fall. “Oh,” he says.

Harold looks at him for a moment, then he reaches out to put a hand on John's shoulder. “You might want to tell your mom what you're struggling with. She seems like a reasonable woman, I'm sure she would listen.”

Harold's hand is warm on John's shoulder: he feels like the touch is burning through the fabric of his shirt. Sure, she would listen. And then she'd start to cry with disappointment, probably.

“It's my decision though,” John says. He hopes that he sounds more confident than he feels. “If I decide to keep visiting you. That's something I can decide for myself.”

Harold removes his hand from John's shoulder and John feels the loss of contact physically, like an ache. “I suppose it is,” Harold says. “I won't send you away if that's what you're asking.”

There's an urgent knock on the door. John wonders if a SWAT team will burst in if they don't answer. “Mr. Wren?”

Harold sighs. “Come in, Zoe.”

The door opens to Zoe and Root, marching in like a detective duo on a Law and Order rerun. John wonders if he'll ever have alone time with Harold now, with these two hanging around the house.

“There's a call for you,” Root says, holding out a pink cellphone with rhinestones on it.

Harold frowns at it.

“And by that, Root means that _she_ called someone for you, because she likes to get involved in other people's lives,” Zoe adds.

“It's funny _you_ should say that,” Root says, looking up at her.

“It was a compliment,” Zoe replies, seemingly unfazed.

Harold takes the phone. “Yes, Wren?” His hand clenches around the phone. _“Nathan?”_

Harold listens for a moment, then he puts his hand over the cellphone and says: “Would you mind leaving me alone for a second?”

John walks out followed by Zoe, who is pulling a struggling Root along by her arm.

–

John rides back home. Zoe is busy running the school on her phone anyway, and Root is waiting in front of the study, her ear pressed against the door.

His mom is already at work when he comes back, which at least means that John doesn't have to dodge any more awkward questions about Zoe. Small mercies, he thinks.

–

They leave him in peace until the next week, when John's doorbell rings in the late afternoon on a Friday. When John doesn't immediately answer the door, marking the page in the book he's been reading, the doorbell chimes three more times, each sounding more accusing than the last one.

“Christ, what's the matter with you?” John asks when he opens the door, only to stare into Zoe Morgan's disturbingly beautiful face. Oh.

“I don't know, John, but is that the way that you always greet guests? I would have thought that your momma taught you better than that, she seems like such a nice woman. Is she home?”

“At work,” John says through gritted teeth. Next to Zoe, Root stares up at him like she wants to kick him in the shin again. “Did the two of you join Jehovah's Witnesses?”

Zoe leans closer, a look of mock concern on her face. “Why, John? Do you need to talk about god? Confess your sins, maybe?”

“Pretty sure that's Catholicism, Zoe,” John says.

She gives him a knowing smile. “Of course, you would know all about that.”

“You're having dinner with us,” Root says. She sounds _pissed_ , like John screwed up already by existing.

“What are you even talking about,” John says, and then he barely has time to grab his backpack and keys before Zoe drags him outside.

–

“Just so I get this,” John says, and Zoe and Root sigh in perfect unison. “Zoe, you invited Joss to have dinner at Harold's place while pretending that it was a yearbook thing, and now you need to a) actually make food and b) find other people who will pretend to work on the yearbook so it won't look suspicious.”

Zoe gives a few celery sticks a critical look before dropping them into the shopping cart. “Well, that and convincing Harold that we're having dinner at his place tonight.”

John fishes out the celery and puts it back. “What do you even want with this?“, he asks, collecting items for an improvised vegetable pasta sauce instead. “Wait, _what_?”

“Again, we could just order pizza,” Root suggests, dropping eight packs of chewing gum into the shopping cart.

“I might have said something about a homemade meal,” Zoe says. She holds out a net of Brussel sprouts for John to inspect.

“Please stay away from the vegetables,” John says, a little desperate. “We'll make pasta, and get something to drink, maybe some ice cream.”

“Ice cream!” Root calls and takes off, presumably to get something terrible, possibly bubble gum-flavoured.

“Sure, mom, whatever you say,” Zoe says, fiddling with her phone again.

“You owe me for this,” John mutters.

Zoe stops in her tracks. Then she tilts her head a little, does something on her phone and holds out the screen for John to see. John swallows. “Nevermind,” he says.

“Mmh, I thought so,” Zoe says, nodding at the screen. “I'm sure all the other kids were jealous of the costume though, you were such an adorable little cupcake. Literally.”

“I was five,” John says, dropping a box of pasta into the shopping cart with more force than necessary.

“An adorable little cupcake,” Zoe singsongs, not looking up from her phone.

–

Harold opens the door and blinks at them with an expression that is definitely more _What the hell is even happening_ than _How nice to see you._

Root hugs his legs. “We're having a yearbook meeting at your house, Harold,” she says.

“Of course you are,” Harold mutters.

John tries to hide his blushing face behind the paper bag. It's so _good_ to see Harold.

–

Zoe and Root are busy setting the table while John stares at the lack of organization in Harold's kitchen. Some items are still in plastic wrappers or wait in the paper cartons they came in, neatly stacked at the back of the cupboard. The pantry contains pasta sauce in jars and colorful boxes of ramen noodles, the freezer is stocked with microwave meals. It's kind of sad, really.

“You honestly don't cook much, do you?” John asks.

“I am not prone to exaggeration,” Harold says. He hands John a glass of lemonade. It's getting dark outside, and John has to think about the time Harold drove him home, how the fabric of his suit felt under John's hands. The moment seems surreal in retrospect, like a dream that he only half remembers.

John quickly busies himself with chopping vegetables. He wants to talk to Harold so badly, about how Harold said _If this is making things difficult between your mother and yourself, I'd rather you didn't visit me_ and John could barely catch a breath at the idea of not seeing Harold again. He also wants to talk about the guy on that celebrity show that made Harold look so helpless, but maybe that is not such a good idea either.

“Zoe invited Joss to a date and then chickened out because she's not as cool as everyone thinks,” John blurts out instead.

Zoe shoots him a death glare. Root shoots him a death glare from a few centimeters below.

Harold turns to Zoe, considering. “Is that so?” He asks.

Zoe crosses her arms in front of her chest. “So I asked a possibly straight girl out on a date and didn't want to make a fool out of myself in case the possible straightness turned into definite straightness.”

“Or in case she wasn't interested,” John supplies.

Zoe gives him a look that communicates exactly how stupid Zoe thinks John is, which, apparently, is _extremely freaking stupid._ “Who wouldn't be interested in me?”, she asks, with a baffled expression.

Harold smiles his private, amused smile. “Fair enough,” he says. “I think your water is boiling.” John flinches and quickly busies himself with cooking the pasta.

–

Joss is exactly as beautiful as John remembered: she stands on Harold's doorstep with a backpack slung over her shoulder and a friendly smile on her face. “Mr. Wren? It's very nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Harold says, and then Zoe ushers Joss inside, talking about the yearbook club with such authority that John forgets for a second that Zoe would rather stab herself with a fork than let him touch anything yearbook-related.

Harold has rolled up his sleeves and helps John in the kitchen, oddly cheerful for someone whose house has been occupied by a bunch of teenagers. They stand side by side, Harold chopping onions and herbs and handing them to John, who has put together a dinner from scratch in no time. When John moves a little to the side, their shoulders are touching. John doesn't remember being this happy in a long time.

–

If Joss is taken aback by the odd gathering in Harold's dining room, she doesn't let it show. Zoe and Root take turns telling hilarious school stories, and John contributes an impression of poor Leon trying to save his parent's expensive belongings from an army of drunk teenagers. Harold sits there, listening, complimenting John on the food and occasionally gazing at where Zoe and Joss are sitting a little too closely, smiling at each other. John wonders what Harold thinks about.

Then the doorbell rings. “Did you invite anyone else?” John asks Zoe, but Root already jumped up and is running to open the front door.

On the front steps, John can see a flash of blond hair and a handsome jawline. Then Nathan Ingram stands in the middle of the room, staring at each of the high school kids before settling his gaze on Harold.

“If you have an explanation for this, I would just love to hear it,” Ingram says.

–

“What _the hell_ are you doing, Harold?” Ingram asks before Harold even has a chance to walk with him into the study and close the door all the way. It doesn't fall shut, so John gets up and hides in the dark corridor, trying to control his breathing, listening to their voices.

He shouldn't spy on Harold, he really, really shouldn't, but he just needs to know what's going on, why Harold looks like he'd like to get into his car and drive forever.

Ingram's hair is honey-colored, bleached by the sun, and the tan is giving his skin a soft glow that makes him look unfairly, infuriatingly attractive. He is tall and strong and has a charming smile, and John has never hated anybody so much in his entire life.

John doesn't quite catch the next part: something about New York and _IFT_ , and then Ingram is laughing in disbelief. “Can you explain to me why you would disappear out of the blue, only to buy a house in some ridiculous _desert town_? I used a rental to drive here, Harold, because this place doesn't have a freaking airport. And who are all of these children in your kitchen, did you consider a career as a nanny?”

“You honestly don't know,” Harold says. John can't see into the room, but he can imagine Harold's face: his voice sounds just like it did when they saw that celebrity magazine on TV.

“I don't know what?” Ingram asks, sounding impatient. “Why you're pulling this stunt? No, Harold, I honestly don't know. This isn't eccentric anymore, it's absolutely insane. Do you intend to _live_ here?”

“You think I'm being eccentric,” Harold says. He sounds very calm, but John can hear that his voice is shaking.

“Hell yes I do. What's next? A pet Bengal tiger? Do you want to trash a hotel room? I think the success might be getting to you –”

“My best friend got married and I smiled and toasted with champagne and I kissed his wife on the cheek and then I watched them sail off into the sunset together,” Harold says. “It was a bit troubling, I have to confess, after I spent the last ten years being miserably in love with him.”

John's jaw falls open at that. Apparently it shocks Ingram into silence, too, because now it's only Harold's voice that can be heard from inside of the room.

“It's quite remarkable how you managed to stay oblivious for so long, when I wasn't doing a great job of hiding it,” Harold says.

“You're in _love_ with me?” Ingram says. His voice is pure disbelief. “Harold. You're not _gay._ ”

“I beg your unbelievable pardon?” Harold asks, and John flinches at the sound of his voice, the raw hurt in it.

“You dated girls in college. Heck, you had all these girlfriends. You never showed interest in a guy. Look, I don't know what _phase_ you think you're going through –”

“I kissed you!” Harold explodes. “We _made out_ , as I'd like to remind you in case your alcohol-suffused brain has chosen to delete that particular memory, we made out on your bed in our college dorm room after that awful sorority mixer and the next day you got up and walked away like it was – like it was _nothing –”_

“Because it _was_ nothing, Harold. We got drunk, we fooled around, it's what guys do, _Jesus._ It's not like I proclaimed my undying love to you –”

“You are unbelievable,” Harold mutters, so that John has to strain to hear him. “I introduced her to you. Olivia was my friend, and then you started dating her and you became so incredibly full of yourself, _Oh, Harold, you'll find somebody one day; You should really not lock yourself in this office building all day, the right woman for you is out there._ It's like I was invisible to you, Nathan, some piece of furniture.”

“So you're saying that you're hiding in the desert because, what?” Ingram laughs, but it's all for show, no real feeling behind it. “Because I _broke your heart_?”

There is a moment of silence. “What do you want from me, Nathan?” Harold asks. He sounds achingly tired.

“I want you to stop whatever stunt it is you're pulling here and come back to New York and be my business partner. Look, I don't know what brought this on, but we really have to leave this nonsense about you being gay behind and –”

John hears the footsteps before the door opens and ducks into the bathroom. Harold heads up the stairs with Ingram calling after him, and John puts his hands against the cool tile and tries to catch his breath.

–

_He needs to stop thinking about it, especially that night. It makes his chest clench painfully to think about the way Nathan's lips felt on his, the embrace of his arms, the little sounds he made when Harold slid down his body to suck him off. Harold had been so relieved, so happy: he truly thought that Nathan had an epiphany, that finally, he was going to realize how good they could be together, how much Harold loved him._

_The realization that it had been just sex to Nathan – worse, that it had been meaningless to him, judging by his reaction – was one of the worst moments in Harold's life. If that night hadn't been enough proof for him when it came to Harold's sexual orientation and his feelings for Nathan, then what would be?_

–

John finds Harold sitting on the edge of the mattress in his bedroom, the door standing ajar. John raps his knuckles over it and Harold looks up. “Oh, hello,” he says, a little puzzled, like he can't figure out why John should be in his house. Then he seems to remember. “Come in, if you want.”

John does. He stands in front of Harold for a moment, feeling awkward, and then decides to sit down on the bed next to him. The mattress dips a little when he lowers himself down, and it takes him a moment to catch his balance: his knees feel weird, weak, maybe from sitting so close to Harold for the first time in a while.

Harold has removed his glasses and is rubbing at his face. He looks like he hasn't slept in three weeks.

“So,” John says. “You uh, guys had a fight or something? I didn't hear anything,” he adds, way too quickly, “There were just raised voices down the hall, and I thought, well. That you might be fighting.”

Harold looks like he's stuck in the moment like when you rewind an old VHS tape and then hit pause, the frame stuttering to a halt, blurry. Then Harold laughs, a hollow, joyless laugh. “I guess we should have had that fight a long time ago.”

John feels like an idiot now, mostly because it seems like he has only managed to hurt Harold _more._ “Sorry, I should have just – Sorry I asked,” he says, stumbling over the words.

Harold reaches out a hand and touches John's elbow. “No, I'm sorry, John, I am on edge, it's nothing you have done,” he says.

“It's fine,” John says. Then he tries to come up with something else to say, something comforting, something that will make Harold feel better.

Harold puts his glasses back on and frowns at him. “It was about some personal issues,” he says, with the ghost of his usual smile. “Nathan and I are running a business together in New York and I left rather abruptly, left some things dangling in the air.”

“You just look pretty unhappy, is all,” John offers awkwardly. He doesn't know what he wants Harold to say: to admit what they were fighting about, repeat the words that were so painful for him?

Harold smiles, a little, before the expression slides off his face like drops of water. “It's nothing, John, no reason to worry.”

John feels the weight of Harold's sadness physically, like lead on his shoulders. Before he knows what he's doing, he slides to his knees, his hands on Harold's knees. Harold's eyes widen, but he doesn't move. He just watches John cautiously.

“I don't want you to look like that,” John admits. It sounded better in his head, more determined, when in real life he just sounds needy, like a whining child.

“John,” Harold says.

John expects him to say 'please get up' or 'stop it, now' or something else that will instantly make John get up and close his mouth and sit down again with his heart beating in his chest like something wild and furious.

Instead, Harold puts a hand against John's cheek and says: “You need to stop worrying about me so much, I don't want to be the reason that you're sad.” His mouth quirks at that, like he said something funny. “As you see, my motives are rather more selfish than yours.”

John can't breathe. Harold's hand is warm against his cheek, and he is looking at John, really looking at him, not just through a rear view mirror or from the side. “I could make you feel better,” John says, before he even knows that he wants to. Or maybe he has known that he would do it all along, even in the car, or even before that: that if John ever got the chance to feel Harold's gaze on him, be the sole subject of his focus, he would do _anything._

John pushes himself up a little and brushes his lips against Harold's: barely a kiss, just a peck on the lips. It's the barest bit of touch and it still sends sparks of electricity through him, a bright hot current.

Harold's hand rests lightly on John's cheek and the light of the window is reflecting on his glasses so John can't see his eyes. Then there's a noise behind him and Harold slides his hand into John's hair and pulls him close. John can't really hear anything over the roaring in his ears, but Harold's mouth is on his and Harold's hand is warm and strong at the back of John's head, holding him in place, angling his head. It's not like the kisses John had before, where you open your mouth awkwardly, like a fish; people kissing with too much tongue or clenching their jaws, teeth gnashing against each other.

This kiss feels like Harold has reached inside of John and touched a live wire: he feels shaky and high and like he never wants to come down. Harold's tongue is teasing the inseam of John's lips and it feels like John has never known that he has a _mouth_ , before: everything feels amplified and more intense, every touch a dizzying explosion of sensation.

John opens his mouth, helpless to do anything else, and grabs blindly for something to hold on when Harold keeps kissing him, deep and filthy, his nails scraping over John's scalp. John distantly realizes that he's hard, his cock throbbing between his legs like a pulse, but it doesn't matter, nothing matters but the obscene slide of Harold's tongue against John's, the taste of him, the feeling of his hand keeping John in place.

Then, suddenly, it's over. Harold pulls back, his hand disappears from John's head and John is left staring at him, panting and achingly aroused. His lips feel hot and swollen, his whole body is singing.

“Gay enough for you?” Harold asks, steel-cold and unblinking, and John doesn't understand for a moment, can't make sense of the words at all.

Then he turns his head and sees Nathan Ingram standing in the doorway, his face gray like he might pass out. “Christ, Harold,” he mutters.

John looks back at Harold, but Harold isn't looking back _at him_ : his gaze is firmly fixed on Ingram, like a challenge, like some kind of dare.


	3. Chapter Three

This time, they take the confrontation outside, onto the patio, raised voices and _I can't believe you_ and _What in the world are you thinking_ , Ingram pacing while Harold stands perfectly still.

“Maybe we should have ice cream at _Molly's_ ,” Zoe suggests a little helplessly. “They should still be open for a few hours?”

Root anxiously looks over the back of the couch. “Somebody should stay here, to make sure that Harold is okay.”

“I volunteer,” John says. He is cleaning up the dishes, washing them by hand to give himself something to do.

Root huffs, probably frustrated that she's not the one who's allowed to stay behind.

“I should be dropping you off at home soon, anyway,” Zoe says diplomatically. “Will you be okay here, John?”

“Fine,” John says quickly, scrubbing at a plate. He feels like there is a neon sign over his head, surely everyone must be able to tell what he and Harold did: it seems too important that anyone could miss it. “I have some cleaning to do, anyway.”

“It was nice to see you,” Joss says on the way out. “See you at the next meeting?”

“Yeah, sure,” John says. A few months ago he would have given his left arm for Joss to smile at him like that, but now he is distracted by the sight of Harold, looking miserable and still arguing with Ingram. “See you soon.”

About ten minutes after everyone has cleared out, Ingram shows up, blond hair in disarray, mouth an unhappy line. His phone is vibrating with the buzz of text messages, but he ignores them. He stares at John. “Christ, how old are you? Sixteen?”

John squares his shoulder, pushes his chin up defiantly. “Eighteen, actually,” he says. It's almost true: it's only a few more weeks until his eighteenth birthday.

Ingram huffs. “Well, all perfectly legitimate then,” he says.

“There's a motel about fifteen minutes down the freeway,” Harold says from the living room. He is leaning against a bookcase, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“It's fine, I'm not staying in town. I really don't see what that would accomplish.” Ingram opens the door. “Call me when you come to your senses, Harold.”

“Have a good flight,” Harold says, in a dismissive tone John has never heard from him before. Then Ingram is out of the door and John and Harold are alone.

“The others went to get some ice cream,” John says, even though Harold probably doesn't care too much just about now. “Zoe will make sure that Root gets home alright.”

“Yes, sure, that's good.” Harold looks down at the carpet, then suddenly back up at John. “John, I should really apologize,” he says.

John puts away the dishtowel, frowning. “Apologize for what?”

“Up in the bedroom, I really – I was absolutely out of line. Frankly, I don't know what possessed me, to use your affection to _make a point_ , I really –” He shakes his head.

“It's fine,” John says, _meaning_ it. “I'm not sorry that you did it.”

If anything, Harold looks even more upset at that. “You don't understand,” he says softly. “You have no part in this conflict at all, and you're a minor, for god's sake, and for me to abuse your trust like that, it's just... You should be angry with me,” Harold says, like the thought just occurred to him.

“Well, I'm not,” John says, shrugging. “I get it: you kissed me because of something that's happening between you and Ingram, not because you wanted to kiss me.” His ears are turning hot at all this talk about kissing, the memory of Harold's lips on his own. “I already gathered that I'm probably not what you want _at all_ ,” John says, trying to smile despite how much that hurts, “Some high school kid who can't figure out if he's queer or not.”

Harold's face is ashen. “What are you talking about?”, he asks, as if John is speaking in French or some other language with wildly illogical tenses and odd verb forms.

“I mean that it's kind of embarrassing to have a crush on you when I know that you don't like me that way,” John says.

“I think,” Harold says, his lips pale enough that for a moment John is legitimately worried that he will pass out, “that we should probably sit down for this.”

–

Harold is a good storyteller. He isn't as entertaining as John's mom is, who always did the voices in his childhood books, making faces and doing impressions of the characters, but Harold has a way of telling a story the same way you might read it in a book: it just flows, clearly and steadily in your mind.

John can see it all happening: Harold and Nathan's shared room at MIT, a small dorm room with two beds and two desks squeezed in along with one large closet. Nathan himself, young and radiant with curly blond hair, always socializing, joking, flirting with girls. Harold, bespectacled and his clothes older than he'd liked and a suitcase that held every single one of his belongings.

“Nathan honestly didn't realize, I think,” Harold says thoughtfully. He has put a can of soda in front of John, he is nursing a beer himself. John isn't sure he's ever seen Harold drink anything but lemonade and tea before.

Harold peels the label off the bottle with his fingernail. “He's not _cruel_ , you know. _'Oblivious'_ is the right word, I think. I spent a few miserable semesters working too much, sleeping too little and watching him hook up with girls. But I think the thing that really got to me – the thing that still hurts to think about – is that he would get these moods: when he aced an exam despite only cramming the night before, or got away with something, he'd get drunk or high and he'd put his arm around me, or kiss me square on the mouth. We'd– ” Harold trails off for a moment, like he is trying to decide if John should hear this.

“If it's too personal, you don't have to talk about it,” John says, even though his stomach is twisting into knots at how much he wants to hear it.

“No, I want to tell you,” Harold says. His smile is a little sad. “It's just. I wish it was a different kind of story, a happier one? It's what I thought about the Isherwood novel, as well.”

John frowns at that. He doesn't really see the connection.

“Our stories – those of queer people that is, gay and bisexual folk – are often not very happy in the books and movies. There is a lot of tragedy and suffering, which is important, obviously, for many reasons, but it's not everything. There is more than pain and disappointment. You're young, you're just starting to figure these things out, and I guess I wish that I could offer you a story that's a little happier. More hopeful. It isn't always like this, is what I'm saying. It doesn't have to be.”

John doesn't know what to say to that. It's true that the books Harold has given him all end badly, mostly with someone dying. “It's yours, though. The story? It's _yours._ Maybe it's not hopeful or happy or anything, but I'd still love to hear it.” God, is he making a fool out of himself? John studies Harold's face, trying to figure it out.

Harold smiles. “There was a party,” he says. “A sorority mixer? Awful thing, crowded and loud, people drinking peach schnapps out of buckets with straws. Nathan was drunk already when I got there, fell half on top of me, _Harold, so good to see you, you're my favorite person in the whole world, do you know that?_ ” Harold stares out of the window, onto the driveway, the neat line of houses. “I should have known better, really. He was leaning against me all the way back to our dorm room. I took his shoes off while he was sitting on the bed, and then he just leaned in and kissed me. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe that he finally had some kind of alcohol-induced epiphany, that he suddenly realized that he had been in love with me all along. That wasn't true, of course. It didn't have a whole lot to do with love,” Harold says, shrugging. “For me, it was the night I had been waiting for. For him, well. He woke up the next morning with a terrible hangover, still sprawled all over me. Not a word was spoken of it; the next weekend he was back together with Christie, an English major.”

John feels like somebody ripped out his heart, stomped onto it for a while and then put it back in his chest. “I'm sorry,” he says.

“I know,” Harold says, “how it feels to have romantic feelings for somebody who doesn't reciprocate them.”

John feels like the floor is dissolving beneath him.

“I really hope that it wasn't like this for you,” Harold says. “That I didn't put you through the same thing?”

“This is really not the same thing,” John says. His head is spinning. “You're not like him.”

“True. I don't think, with all his amorous adventures, that Nathan has ever kissed anyone purely to make a point in an argument.”

That makes John remember the kiss again: Harold's lips, his hands on John's head, holding him in place, that fireworks and explosions feeling in John's guts that he thought was just something stupid romance movies made up. “I didn't tell you that to make you feel bad,” John says. “It's just that I know that I'm not what you want, so.” He shrugs. “It's fine.”

“And what do I want?” Harold asks. He sounds curious. The label has almost come all the way off, and John watches his pale fingers work, tries very hard not to look at Harold's face.

“Well, I've seen Ingram, he's kind of,” John makes a gesture that really doesn't communicate much at all. “Attractive. Charming, I guess. Good with people. Made friends easily, from what you said about him. Popular.”

John _does_ look up then. Harold looks like he's trying not to laugh. “Sorry, I'm not making fun of you. Well, apart from a shallow attraction to looks that I can't deny, I'm still human, those are really not the things that made me fall for him.”

“Okay,” John says doubtfully.

Harold takes a sip from his bottle. “I could talk to him, in a way I had never been able to manage with anyone else. I trusted him. He was brilliant, enthusiastic, generous, a little bit reckless. I was under the mistaken impression that you only have to love somebody enough, then they'll eventually have to love you back.”

John has a sudden, visceral memory of when he was ten, standing in the doorway with his hands clutched into his father's jacket. He had thought: _If you really loved me, you wouldn't go._ By now he realizes that it was more complicated than that, and for all that he remembers, his dad looked as miserable leaving as John felt about it.

“That's not how it works, is it,” John says. “You can't love someone into doing anything.”

They sit in silence for a moment. The kitchen clock ticks away at the wall, outside the streetlights flicker into life.

“Did you move here because he got married to that woman?” John finally asks.

Harold makes a face. “Oh no, I had all kinds of reasonable explanations about broadening my horizons and taking a creative break and whatnot,” he says. He smiles at John, and John smiles back helplessly. “It was exactly the reason,” Harold says. “I introduced them, actually. Olivia is an old friend of mine. Nathan was suddenly full of these platitudes about how I would find the right woman eventually, maybe I should try going out more? Or maybe Olivia could hook me up with one of her friends? It was quite humiliating, really, so I packed a bag, walked to JFK and got on the first plane. I arranged the accommodations on the plane, had some of my things sent here and then told my secretary to keep my whereabouts secret.”

John nods. He wants to know more about Nathan, but what he ends up blurting out is: “Are you going back now? To New York?”

Harold sets down the bottle. “I considered it,” he says. “The truth is that I have no idea what I'm going to do. IFT, our company, made quite a profit since we started it, I assume I could live comfortably off the stock I hold in the company, or work from here, if I chose to. I think what bothers me is that for years, I have sacrificed my whole life for this company, and in the end all I achieved is that we made ourselves a lot of money.”

John shrugs. “You can help people with money. Donate to charities, something like that?”

Harold nods. “Do you know that tutoring Root in college level calculus is the most fun I've had in years? Well. That and having discussions with you, obviously.”

John feels himself blush at that. “Really?” He asks. He sounds way too eager, greedy for Harold to say more.

“Really,” Harold says softly. “I'm glad that you decided to keep visiting, despite everything.”

Later, when John is alone in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, he replays that last part over and over in his head: _I'm glad that you decided to keep visiting._

–

_So this is how it feels to screw up spectacularly yet again. Harold feels shame curl like a hot ball in his stomach at the thought of the kiss: he shouldn't have let himself get swept away by his own feelings of spite and anger, and certainly not at John's expense. (God, the way John had looked at him, his soft, eager mouth–)_

_Harold kicks away his sheets and tries to find a comfortable position that will let him sleep. All he can think about is John's face, the way he knelt in front of Harold, desperate to make him feel better. (And his depraved mind can put a dirty spin on that, too: John kneeling in front of him, unbuttoning Harold's pants, saying: “I just want to make you feel better.” Fuck.)_

_Harold groans, wondering if he can manage to smother himself with his own pillow. John trusts him, confides in him, and Harold feels sick at the thought of how much damage he could do – how much damage he might have done already with his petty demonstration for Nathan._

_He doesn't sleep well that night._

–

“You can't get pregnant from _that_ ,” Sameen says. “You can get an STI, though. That's a _sexually transmitted infection._ ”

“Are you pre-med or something?” Logan asks. He puts his soda can back on the table with clumsy fingers and spills some of the liquid on the carpet. “I mean you're obviously not in college yet, so, _duh_ , but I meant, like. You sound science-y.”

John puts a hand over his eyes to block out the secondhand-embarrassment.

“You are really weird,” Sameen says, squinting at Logan.

“Maybe we should talk more about yearbook things?” Joss suggests, for the third time that hour.

“Oh, don't worry, it's all part of the process,” Zoe says. “It's brainstorming, basically, to generate fresh ideas.”

The 'yearbook meetings' have become a weekly event, held exclusively at Harold's place. (If he objected to it at first, he has long realized that there is no point in defying Zoe Morgan.) John has really no idea how Sameen got involved, except that one day she started showing up and eating all of their food. Logan asked John if he could join, and after taking the matter to Zoe, she had decided that “boys are fine as long as they do not distract Joss from being wooed”. Apparently she doesn't consider Logan much of a distraction. Or John, for that matter.

“All you guys have been doing for the last hour is discuss school gossip and sex,” Joss says, squirming a little uncomfortably in her seat.

“Who is talking about sex?” Root asks, emerging from Harold's study. She carries a stack of books and her yellow legal pad.

Harold comes in after her. He takes a moment to look at the group of teenagers occupying his living room: Sameen sits cross-legged on the floor, Zoe, Joss and Logan are wedged awkwardly next to each other on the couch, John is sprawled in a love seat. He smiles back at Harold with a _What can you do?_ expression and Harold smiles and walks into the kitchen, probably to make himself some tea.

Root elbows John into the side until he scoots and makes room for her to sit next to him.

“Jemma has been going on for weeks now about how she let her boyfriend tie her up that one time and then she had bruises for _weeks_ ,” Sameen says through a mouth full of popcorn. “I didn't think that Jeff guy even knew how to tie a knot.”

“I got tied up once,” Logan perks up. “It was kinda cool, only my hands felt numb after a while.”

In the kitchen, Harold audibly sets his mug down on the counter.

“Pff, big deal. I mean, what's the worst that could happen when you tie someone to a bed?” Sameen says, fishing more popcorn from the bowl.

“Loss of feeling in extremities, permanent nerve damage, tissue damage due to lack of circulation,” Harold says.

The entire living room turns around to him. A piece of popcorn falls out of Sameen's mouth. “ _What_ did you just say?”

Harold stirs sugar into his tea. “You were asking about the dangers of unsafe bondage practices, and I was listing some common complications.”

John tries to bite back a smile and fails horribly. Harold stands there, utterly calm, stirring his tea and looking like an elementary school math teacher in his tweed vest and leather loafers.

“In fact, Mr. Pierce, your partner should have taken better care to assure that the restraints did not constrict blood flow to your hands. Numbness is not a necessary experience in bondage play.”

Zoe makes a note on her phone, whether about safety tips for bondage or Harold's surprising knowledge about how to tie people up responsibly, John doesn't know.

Sameen tilts her head. “You know what, Mr. Wren, I have a few questions for you.”

–

“It's not consent if someone is drunk!” Joss says, pointing with her straw to make her point.

“Yeah, but like, if you only drink a little? Like, if you have a beer, you can still decide if you want to have sex, so it doesn't count if you're just _tipsy_ ,” Zoe says, passing the egg salad.

“That's fair, but there's not much alcohol in one beer, is there? I mean, you could still drive a car after having one. I mean your consent probably isn't valid after you did, I don't know. Eleven tequila shots.”

“Have you ever done a tequila shot in your life?” Zoe asks, tugging lightly at Joss' braided hair.

“You are totally derailing my argument,” Joss says, but she lets Zoe kiss her on the cheek anyway. “Harold, help me here.”

“Joss is making an important point,” Harold says, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “If someone is intoxicated or under the influence of drugs, you should assume that they are probably not in a state to consent to anything.”

Joss grins, pleased, as if she just got praised by the teacher. John takes some more steaks off the barbecue and sets them on the table. There is barely enough room to set down the plate: Zoe sent a group text at the beginning of the week that read:

BBQ AT HAROLD'S THIS WEEK, BRING FOOD

Apparently, “bring food” was code for “prepare for the dawning apocalypse”: there are enough salads and bread rolls on the table to last them two weeks under zombie siege.

After that time when Sameen had asked Harold to basically hold an impromptu bondage workshop (“Scissors? What do you need scissors for when you tie someone up?” – “Oh dear lord, I have so much work to do here.”), the not-actually-yearbook-related yearbook group had urged him to join their meetings, which by now were mostly the six of them sitting around and talking. Well, the six of them and _Root_ , who insisted on attending every single meeting. Harold, a surprisingly excellent resource related to sexuality, kink and sexual orientation, had patiently answered their questions and even prepared a thorough and extremely entertaining PowerPoint presentation on safe sex that put their entire health class education to shame.

Today, he asked “So how do you know if someone consents to having sex? How do you know if someone doesn't?,” and while the answer had seemed pretty obvious to John at first – a _yes_ is consent, a _no_ is none – by now he can tell that the issue is a bit more complicated than that.

“You can't consent to sex if someone pressures you into it,” Logan offers between bites of potato salad. Multiple heads turn to him. Logan blinks. “That didn't _happen_ to me, do none of you people watch any TV, ever? There are like, a million shows and movies about guys who are all “Hey, you know you want to” and “It's gonna be fine” and whatever, or who threaten to break up with their girlfriends if they don't put out.”

“Well, boys are jerks,” Zoe says, fiddling with her phone. “Sorry, Harold.”

John and Logan look at each other across the table. “None taken,” Logan mutters.

“That's a good point, Logan, and it also applies to other relationship constellations than boy/girl, obviously.”

“I just ask people if they are attracted to me and want to get down,” Sameen says before continuing to wolf down her steak.

John takes a sip of lemonade, blushing. He _does_ remember. Interestingly enough, that is the exact same moment that Logan chokes on a piece of potato salad and Sameen has to clap him on the back to stop him from dying.

“Do you need someone to cut your food into smaller pieces, maybe?” Root asks.

“I think I can manage, thanks,” Logan says, over the sound of everyone's laughter.

–

John is trying to squeeze the potato salad into the packed fridge when Harold walks into the kitchen.

“Everybody seems to assume that I am unable to feed myself,” Harold says, frowning at the pile of food on the counter.

John grins. “Well, they are not _wrong.”_

“I cook things sometimes.”

“Ninety percent of the items in this kitchen have never been used, Harold,” John says, closing the fridge and wrapping the bread rolls up in tinfoil. “I don't think adults are supposed to live off ramen noodles and Mac n Cheese in boxes.”

“I never claimed to be an adult, frankly, the concept seems terrifying,” Harold says, sipping his lemonade.

John looks down at the bread rolls. “I'll be an adult soon, technically speaking.”

“What do you mean?”

Outside, John can hear the others take off on their bikes: Logan has turned on music on his phone and Zoe and Joss are giggling and singing along. “It's my birthday next Friday. I'm, uhm. I'm turning eighteen.”

When John looks up, Harold is watching him curiously. “Is there something you'd like for your birthday?”

John's mouth is suddenly very dry. “You know a lot about this stuff,” he says. “Relationship stuff, and... sex stuff,” he finishes lamely.

“I've had my experiences,” Harold says airily.

“You were in a lot of relationships, then?” John asks. He is done wrapping everything up, and unless he starts wrapping up random kitchen appliances in tinfoil, too, there is nothing more for him to do. He leans against the counter instead.

“New York is a big city. There are ways to meet people with similar inclinations,” Harold says. “I didn't really meet too many people I was interested in romantically.”

John nods. He wants to ask more: does Harold mean casual sex? Did he meet up with people to do kinky things? It makes him more nervous, though, to think about these things, anyway, he still has to ask Harold for something.

“It must be better if you feel something for the person, though,” John muses, trying to sound casual. “If you trust them.”

Harold seems to consider that. “Trust is certainly an important factor,” he allows. “But not every relationship involving sex has to be romantic, just as not every romantic relationship has to involve sex.”

“So you're saying that you can sleep with someone without being in love with them?” John asks. His ears feel hot despite the cool air wafting in from outside.

“Certainly,” Harold says.

“Well,” John says. He wonders if there is a good way to say this. “About my birthday? I figured out what I want already.”

“Oh?” Harold asks. He looks at John with that friendly, kind smile that does things to John's insides.

“I'd like you to fuck me,” John says.

For a second, it looks like Harold is about to drop his glass, then he sets it carefully on the counter. “I don't–” he starts, then he blinks a few times, as if to clear his head, and just stares at John.

“I know it's maybe kind of inappropriate to ask,” John babbles. “And you don't have to commit to anything, it would just. Be sex. No strings attached.” John winces. This isn't going the way he wanted it to. “I mean you've done that before, right? Had sex with people you didn't--” John waves his hand.

Harold looks like somebody _punched_ him. “Finish your thought,” he says.

“People you didn't really care about that much,” John says.

“Let's sit down in the living room, shall we?” Harold suddenly says. He runs a hand through his hair and walks over into the next room without waiting for an answer.

John follows him and sits down next to him on the couch.

“What in the world gave you the impression that I don't care about you?” Harold asks.

Well, John didn't see _that_ question coming. “I'm not really, I mean. You do? Care about me?”

Something painful flickers over Harold's face. “John, I care about you much more than I'm supposed to.”

It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. _“What?”_ He feels lightheaded, like he might pass out.

Harold takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “John, I do care about you. I didn't admit to myself just _how much_ for a long time because this situation is, well. You are young, and only just discovering who you are and what you want, and someone in my position – older, more experienced – has the potential to cause a lot of harm.”

John sits very still. He's afraid that any sudden movement might stop Harold from talking, think of a reason to tell John to go.

“Until recently I wasn't aware of the way you feel about me,” Harold says. He puts his glasses back on and smiles softly. “I assumed that you were projecting feelings onto me because we talked about many things you felt uncertain about. But that's not it at all, is it?”

“No,” John says. His mouth is very dry. “It isn't.”

Harold nods. “John, you are kind and generous and smart and I truly appreciate your company,” he says.

The praise hits John like a drug: it floods his body with warmth, makes him feel lighter, giddy.

“I really like being around you, too,” John says.

Harold looks at him, and it's almost too much: John can _see_ the affection now, in Harold's smile, the soft expression in his eyes. “John, this is why I can't just have sex with you. Not when I know how you feel about me. Not with the way I feel about you.”

John nods. He should have known that some kind of rejection was in store for him. “Yeah, I get it,” he says.

“I don't think you do,” Harold says.

Then, he reaches out and puts a hand on John's shoulder. John's breath stutters in his chest at the touch: he regrets putting on a sweater over his t-shirt.

“I shouldn't have brought it up,” John says quickly. He leans into the touch as much as he dares. Harold doesn't take his hand away. “It was a dumb thing to say.”

“John, you deserve more than something casual, no strings attached. You deserve someone who takes care with you. I would love to be that person, but our situation makes it very difficult. I acted irresponsibly when it comes to you already when I kissed you, and maybe having this conversation is just as reckless. Relationships with an imbalance of power and experience can be–”

“You'd love to,” John says. His brain is stuck on this part of the conversation like a broken record. “You said you'd _love to be that person_ , if the situation were any different.”

Harold looks positively _horrified._ “John,” he says. His hand falls away from John's shoulder.

“You didn't say that it was because you didn't want me,” John says, slowly. His hands are shaking.

“I know what I said,” Harold says. He isn't looking at John. “I won't take advantage of you, John. I won't put you in a position where you are that vulnerable, I don't--” He shakes his head resolutely. “I don't trust myself that much.” John opens his mouth to object, but Harold says: “I'm sorry. I just. I don't want you to get hurt.”

_Then don't push me away,_ John thinks.

“I understand,” John says. He tries to hold on to the things Harold said – that he cares, that John is kind and smart – but all he can think of is that when it comes down to it, Harold still won't give him what John asked him for. “It's fine.”

“John,” Harold says. “Look at me.”

John looks up. He is trying to keep his expression neutral, but somehow his whole chest feels tight and his eyes are burning, and he just wants to be able to breathe again. He wants things to be easy for once.

“What do you want?” Harold asks, and it nearly undoes John, because the answer is: _you, you, you._

“I just.” John angrily wipes at his eyes. He isn't going to cry, he _isn't._ “I feel good when I am with you, I feel like I am where I am supposed to be for once.” Harold swallows, but he doesn't interrupt John, so John might as well go on. “I want to feel that all of the time. I can talk to you and you _get me_ , like nobody ever did. I just want to be with you.”

Harold reaches out for him, probably to put a hand on John's shoulder again, but John moves closer in the same instant and Harold ends up with his arm around John's shoulders. John can't help himself: he leans in until he can rest his head on Harold's shoulder. For a brief, nauseating moment he expects Harold to gently, but firmly push John away, but instead Harold sighs and hugs him.

John pushes his face into Harold's collar. He smells Harold's cologne, fabric softener and the smell of the coals from the barbecue, and Harold's hands are warm on his back. John closes his eyes and lets himself go boneless.

“Ssh, it's okay,” Harold says, and then he just keeps muttering soothing nonsense while John closes his eyes and tries to commit the moment to memory, every bright, intoxicating detail of it.

–

_John makes a soft, vulnerable noise and buries his face in Harold's collar. “Ssh,” Harold says, and runs a hand over John's back._

“ _What if I want to do it anyway,” John says against the fabric of Harold's shirt. “What if I want you to take advantage? I just. I want to stop thinking.”_

_Christ. Harold has a sudden, intense visual of just how much John would be willing to put himself in Harold's hands, and it makes him breathless: John is in a state where he will gladly break himself wide open for any person who gains his trust and affection._

_Harold holds him close. “But you deserve to be treated kindly, John. You deserve to be taken care of.”_

_John curls up even closer at that, his hands gripping the fabric of Harold's shirt. “Harold,” he says, muffled by the fabric._

_Harold strokes John's hair, keeps him close just for a few more minutes. “It's going to be okay,” he says._

–

John comes home to find his mom puttering around in the kitchen, an iron pan with pasta sauce simmering on the stove. John feels like crawling into bed and sleeping for three days, sleeping off the sadness and that heavy feeling in his chest. He can't, obviously; they have midterms soon.

His mom wipes her hands on her apron and squints at him. “Is it really you? I haven't seen you in ages, were you always this tall?”

“Maybe I got replaced by an alien while you were away,” John says. He leans in to kiss her on the cheek.

Everything about her is so familiar: the smell of her perfume, the lines around her eyes, the earrings she wears, a pair of pearl studs that his dad gave her for their anniversary and that she refused to sell even when money was really tight. John puts his arms around her and puts his head on her shoulder.

“Hey there,” she says softly, hugging him back. “Did you have a bad day?”

John bites his lip. He hasn't slept well since the first time Zoe picked him up for a _yearbook meeting_ , it's the biggest secret he's ever kept from her apart from, well. The other thing. The thing about John probably being gay. “I'm so sorry,” John says. He moves back to look at her.

She looks at him like he is the best thing in the entire world, and it _hurts._ “I was with Harold,” John says miserably.

His mom reaches out to turn off the stove and take off her apron. “Ah, I thought so,” she says. “Maybe we should talk a little before dinner?”

John wonders if he accidentally walked into a parallel universe without noticing.

–

“You _knew_ ,” John says, for the third time or so. “You _knew_ the whole time?”

“Well, I knew that you've never spoken more than three words with Zoe Morgan before and that you're not interested in the yearbook club,” his mom says dryly. “I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I went to college, before I met your dad. I was _going places_.”

“Mom,” John says, a little helplessly, while she is piling pasta onto his plate. “Why are you not _mad_?”

“Oh, I was,” she says, stirring the sauce with a spoon. “I mean, we still have to talk about the fact that you lied to me about it – yes, leaving out crucial information like that does count as lying – which is very much not okay.”

“I'm sorry,” John says.

“Oh, I know. And you will be even more sorry once you hear about all the annoying tasks around the house I have thought of so you can make it up to me. I don't think I'm going to iron my own clothes for a while.”

She puts down the spoon and reaches for something on the chair next to her. John blinks. It's a paperback, _Death in Venice._ “I didn't mean to snoop around,” she says, “but I have been noticing that quite a lot of new books have been showing up around the house. And I know when you're keeping something from me.”

“Mom–”

“Look, I am not happy that you're not talking to me and visiting someone behind my back when I explicitly asked you to stop. I'm really not. But I also understand that you're in a difficult phase of your life, where things are confusing and you don't always make smart choices.” She straightens her fork and spoon on the table, biting her lip. “And I know that I haven't been there for you like I should have been.”

“It's really okay, mom,” John says quickly. He can't stand to see her like that, looking like she let him down.

She shakes her head. “It's not, John. When you come home from school, I'm asleep, I work nights, and on the weekends we barely see each other. And I know you: you worry so much about me worrying, you won't tell me if you have problems even if they really bother you.”

John stares down at his plate. He has no idea what to say to that. Somehow he has convinced himself that he wasn't doing anything wrong, that surely his mom must want him to meet people, make friends, when all this time he really knew that he was screwing up by not telling her the truth. “I didn't want you to be disappointed,” John says quietly.

She reaches for his hand. “John, I could never be disappointed in you, no matter what you do.”

He blinks and tries to look away, but that's it: now he's _really_ crying, thick, hot tears spilling down his cheek. “I think I might be gay,” he says, and then the rest comes out in a rush: “Or, bisexual, or – I don't really know. And I'm in love with Harold, but he isn't– He didn't _do_ anything, I promise, it's me, I'm in love with him but he doesn't want me, and I don't know what to do.”

His mom lets go of his hand and pushes her chair back, and then she walks around the table to kneel down next to him and pull him into an embrace, and something terrible and painful shakes loose in John's chest because he just leans against her and sobs and sobs.

–

John ends up telling her everything: about Harold letting John come to his house to read, about Nathan, about Root and Zoe and Shaw and Joss and Logan, about their weekly meetings. John leaves out the kiss when he talks about Nathan, but he does tell her about the time when Harold drove John home. By now, it seems stupid to have thought that his mom would be upset by the news that her son might like boys: she waves her fork and calls Nathan an idiot (“I'd love to talk some sense into that man, frankly, that's not the way to treat your best friend.”) and smiles at John's stories about his new friends.

“I don't really understand what changed your mind about Harold, though,” John says, clearing the table. “I mean, the last time you saw him, you looked about ready to punch him in the face.”

His mom is suddenly very interested in the dish towel. “Well,” she says. “I guess I have some things to tell you, too. That wasn't actually the last time that I saw Harold.”

John gapes at her. “Please tell me you didn't really punch him.”

She laughs, and it makes her look so young for a moment that it makes John's heart ache. “Oh, trust me, I wanted to. When I found out that you were still visiting him, I was ready to take a baseball bat and – ” She makes a very worrying gesture.

“We don't even have a baseball bat, mom,” John says, smiling despite the bit of fear still curling in his stomach.

She grows more serious. “John, I _was_ worried. And I think you have to admit that I had good reasons for that. I'm still worried, because that's my job as your mom. The truth is, I took off from my shift for an hour and drove over during one of your _yearbook meetings_ , expecting to, I don't know. Your friends to cover for you, maybe? I don't know what I thought I would find. When I walked up to the house, I heard voices in the garden and walked over, and there was Harold arguing with, well, now I know it was Nathan. Nathan was asking a lot of the same questions that I would have asked: what had Harold to do with all of these high school kids, for one.”

John winces. He really hopes that Nathan didn't mention anything about the kiss: he really doesn't want to explain how _that_ happened.

“Harold talked about that girl, Root? How he would just love if someone else made sure that she doesn't waste her potential, but that nobody seems to care.”

John nods. He has heard enough about Root's parents to understand that they probably wouldn't even notice if she dropped out of school.

“And well, he talked about you. That you come to him to talk about the things that bother you.”

Her smile turns a little sad at that, and John says: “I don't-- It's not because you work so much. I know that I can talk to you, I just. It was different.”

His mom reaches out and squeezes John's hand. “I know. It's fine, John. You know, Harold mentioned losing his father, and how he was left all alone?”

John blinks. He had no idea that Harold lost his father, Harold never spoke a word to him about it. It makes John want to take his bike and drive over, not to pry the information out of him, just to look at Harold, now that he knows: to look at him and see if he looks different. Maybe John can see that particular scar on him now that he knows that it's there. He wants to go back to that moment when John talked about his own dad and say to Harold: “I'm sorry, this probably brings back unhappy memories for you.” If he's very honest with himself, there's also a small, ugly part of John that is disappointed that _Nathan_ knew when John didn't, Nathan who caused Harold such heartache.

“It's something that the two of you have in common,” John's mom says. “He said that he knew how it felt to be different, and that he didn't want you to go through the same things that he did? You or any of these other kids. I mean, I think he realizes that it's not an ideal solution, but also that it's better than nothing.”

She touches the wedding band on her finger. John wonders what his dad would say, if he were here.

“It was, well. It wasn't what I had expected,” she finally says.

John swallows. Harold never talks about that part of his past, but he had already figured that he might not have much left in terms of family, and it's not like any friends of Harold's ever showed up to visit him.

“I came to his house a few days later. He had to listen to a lot of things from me, mostly about how pissed I was that he still allowed you to come over even when he knew it wasn't okay with me.”

“He actually told me that he'd rather I didn't visit if–”

“John,” his mom says. She turns off the tap. “It's fine. I know he wasn't trying to get you into trouble. And do you really think I would have let this thing go on after I found out if I genuinely believed that he might be a bad influence?”

John shakes his head. “No, I guess not.”

“John, when I said I didn't want you to spend time there it was because I didn't want someone older to take advantage of you. It wasn't because of the rumors that he might be gay, or because I don't trust you to make responsible choices. But when you're young, you don't always know what's good for you and what isn't, and sometimes people use that to manipulate you into doing things you're not really comfortable with.”

“Harold wouldn't,” John says. “He would never do that.”

“I think so,” his mom says. “But Harold still has a lot to learn about life himself, and I don't know if he's ready for the responsibility of being with someone who is much more inexperienced. Sometimes you end up hurting people by accident, even if it's the last thing you want.”

“You think it's a good thing that he doesn't want to date me?” John says, scrubbing the plates a little more thoroughly than necessary.

“At this point? I absolutely do think that, yes. John, I know you're in love and all you want is for this to work out, but I think you should consider the things Harold told you today as proof that he genuinely cares about you, rather than the opposite.”

John frowns. “You sound like you _like_ him, all of a sudden, it's very confusing,” he says accusingly.

His mom laughs. “I think he adores you, John, and I think that he wants you to be okay. I can relate to that.”


	4. Chapter Four

John's birthday turns out to be pretty nice: he has ice cream with Sameen, Zoe, Joss, Logan and Root at _Molly's,_ and they spend the afternoon at the public swimming pool. It's one of the last days of summer break and John sits at the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water. He watches his friends jump from the ledge and splash each other with water. The day smells like chlorine and warm asphalt, and while John is really, really happy, he also misses Harold so much that his rib cage hurts.

“Come on, Reese, let's see if you have old grandma speed in the water as well!” Sameen calls.

John grins and lets himself slide into the water.

When he gets home, his mom waits in the kitchen, next to an absurdly large cake with eighteen candles. “What, did you think I would work on the day my only son turns eighteen? I switched shifts ages ago. We are going to a fancy steakhouse later.”

“Mom–”

“Ah, don't even start,” she says, and puts an arm around him. “I am still the head of this household, and I have decided that the expense is justified.” She has to stand on tiptoe now to kiss his forehead. “Happy Birthday.”

John grins and leans down to blow out the candles. Later, when he comes into his room after dinner, there is a book waiting on his nightstand: all crisp, new pages and glossy cover. There is a post-it taped to it: _Harold dropped this off earlier._ It's called “Dancer From The Dance”, and when John opens it, he sees Harold's familiar handwriting:

_I know that it's not quite what you wanted, but I hope that you'll enjoy it anyway._

_You are a very special person, John, and I am very glad that I met you. Take care of yourself._

_Happy Birthday._

_H._

John looks at his bedside clock. It's too late to call, even though he would have loved to hear Harold's voice. Instead, John turns off the lights and crawls under the covers, and tries not to think about anything at all.

–

They don't manage to meet for the first three weeks of school: Zoe is busy getting the cheerleaders back into shape (“God, you would think Becca and Joan spent the summer sitting on their ass and eating pop tarts, the whole squad is in a sorry state”), Joss needs to work out her study schedule, and Sameen spends every free minute on the track field. Even Root seems busier than usual. That leaves John and Logan to hang out on the bleachers next to the baseball field in the afternoons, paging listlessly through their homework.

The first time they do manage to meet at Harold's, a few weeks into the term, Joss and Zoe show up with unfinished essays, and even Sameen brings her French book. It takes John a while to realize that everyone is working extra hard because it's their last year: all the talk about colleges and scholarships is making him dizzy. He can't seem to focus, while the others scribble away on their notepads and quiz each other with index cards, John just stares at the same three sentences in his Poli Sci book, not absorbing a thing.

The term passes him by until suddenly, midterms are looming at the horizon, and John has no idea how he will get even a fraction of the work done before then.

“Look, it's fine if you only started a week or two ago, John. You can still get back on track if you work hard,” Joss says, taking a sip from her strawberry milkshake. They agreed to meet at _Molly's_ to cheer each other up and take a break from studying, which would be great, if John had actually _started_ to study. “I mean, I started four weeks ago, but that's just my study schedule, and maybe you're taking fewer classes than me this term?”

They compare their timetables. John takes exactly as many classes as Joss. “Okay,” she says, with a little more forced cheer. “We can work on that.”

John doesn't feel like telling her that he hasn't really started studying at all: he's mostly been reading Harold's paperbacks or daydreaming, and neither one is going to help him pass History _or_ Calculus. Well. Root could probably tutor him in Calculus.

“I don't even know where to start,” John says. “I just can't really concentrate right now.”

“John,” Joss says. “It's really important not to drop the ball right now if you want to get into a good college. Did you already decide what scholarships you're going to apply for? I could give you my list, maybe there is something on it that would be interesting for you?”

“Thanks,” John says. “I guess I'll try not to fail _all of my midterms_ and then I'll see if someone will pay my student loans.”

–

“I literally texted you 'COME TAKE A STUDY BREAK, ZOE AND I ARE DRIVING TO THE SEX SHOP',” Sameen says, poking an inflatable doll. “What is ambiguous about that? Oh, hey, _ambiguous_ , that's a great SAT word.”

John stares at a glass display full of nipple clamps. “I thought you were joking. I didn't think you'd actually pick me up in a car and drive me to a sex shop on the interstate. Whose car is this, anyway?”

Zoe shrugs, typing on her phone. “Belongs to some guy. I wanted to get Joss one of these vibrator things I read about, because I am the best girlfriend ever. Also my parents are kinda weird about me ordering stuff on the internet, so.”

“Your parents won't let you order sex toys over the internet?” John asks. “What a shocker.”

Sameen whacks him over the arm with a leather flogger, which _hurts._ “Dude, you probably weren't even studying, Joss says you've only been moping around for weeks instead of picking up a book. She is about ready to organize an intervention for you.”

“Or she would, if we weren't all busy studying our asses off,” Zoe says, and snaps her bubblegum. She puts her phone away and looks at a collection of revealing lingerie on a table.

The shop is dimly lit, with red scarves thrown over the lampshades and a bored guy behind the counter who is reading a comic book. John walks over to a display labeled “dildos”, with a large selection of multicolored silicone cocks. One catches his eye in particular: it looks like one of the toys John saw in Harold's drawer. John bites his lip. The dildo looks thick, impressively so, and before John can change his mind, he grabs it and puts it on the counter along with a bottle of lube. Zoe and Sameen are still in the back, arguing the merits of different kinds of vibrators.

Comic book guy gives John a bored look, then he rings up the price in the cash register without a word. John hands the money over nervously. He waits to be asked for an ID, but the guy just hands him the change and puts the toy into a plastic bag that John quickly stuffs into his backpack.

“I'll meet you outside,” John says, passing Sameen and Zoe without looking at them.

–

John does try to get back on track, but the more work he does, the more seems to pile up. His mom leaves food for him in the fridge that John ignores in favor of energy drinks and coffee; one afternoon, he wakes up at four after falling asleep on his books.

He doesn't go to Harold's even though he knows that his friends are meeting there: he doesn't want to hear about everyone's study schedules. Even _Logan_ seems to be on top of his work, effortlessly acing Calculus for some reason that is absolutely beyond John.

One night while his mom is at work, John gets so frustrated with the mountain of work he has to get through, his mind spinning from all the stuff he tried to cram into it earlier, that he slams his book shut and crawls under his bed to find the plastic bag from the sex shop. He just wants to look at it and jerk off, really, try to imagine how it would feel, but once he has it in his hands, he is too tempted: he undoes his belt with shaking hands and draws his pants and boxers down. Then he fumbles with the lube and pushes a slick finger into himself. He is hard, and he is shaking with how much he needs to feel something else than frustration. He applies some lube to the head of the dildo and pushes it against his hole, and Christ, it's _big_ , even more so than he thought when he saw it in the store.

For a moment, John loses his nerve, but he then he thinks about Harold, about how John asked Harold to put his hands on him and Harold _didn't,_ and John just wants to feel better, to get some kind of relief. John pushes the dildo in and winces: the stretch hurts so much that his eyes water from it. He waits for it to pass, puts a hand on his cock to try and distract himself, but it doesn't get better, and every little movement of his hand just makes it worse. John tries to push through the pain, but he is suddenly pretty sure that this isn't how it's supposed to feel. He removes the toy, but his ass still hurts. John sits up and winces, suddenly terrified: what if the burning doesn't stop? What if it gets worse? John gets up and gets his keys, and then he's out of the door, trying not to freak out.

–

“Harold,” John says as soon as Harold opens the door, “I think I kinda screwed up.”

–

The blood drains from Harold's face while he listens to John's explanation. “Let me get my keys, I'm driving you to the hospital,” Harold says, after John finishes with “I think I might have hurt myself,“ his hand on John's shoulder absently reassuring.

“I don't want to go to the hospital,” John says. He is about to sit down on the couch before thinking better of it. The doctor in the emergency room will end up calling his mom, and John doesn't want to explain how he injured himself while using a sex toy.

Harold looks _distressed_ , and some part of John is perversely grateful for it, to see that he cares so much about John's well-being. John knows that Harold cares, but this is _proof._

“You really need to have someone look at this, John, in case you injured yourself–”

“I'm not going to the hospital. It's probably nothing, I just. Can't _you_ do it?” John asks, with his best pleading facial expression. It's not just that he wants to avoid the emergency room, but feeling Harold's hands on him would be worth the humiliation and discomfort tenfold. The idea hadn't occurred to him before: he honestly couldn't think of anyone else who would know what to do, but now that he started thinking about it, he finds it difficult to stop.

Harold is clutching his car keys like a lifeline. “I don't think this is a very good idea.”

John crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I'm not going to the ER, so either you take care of it or I'm going back home and nobody does.”

It's transparent and pathetic and John should probably be glad that Harold hasn't called John's mom already, but Harold puts down the keys on the counter and rubs his temple with his fingers. “This is how we'll do it,” he says. “I'll make sure that you didn't cause any lasting damage that needs medical attention. If you did, I am taking you to the hospital to get treatment, no discussion, no complaints. If not, I'll get you patched up as best as I can and take you home instead.”

“Deal,” John says, the pain almost forgotten with the flutter of excitement in his chest.

Harold isn't completely happy with the arrangement, but he still gets his first aid kit from upstairs, as well as a pair of latex gloves and a towel. He opens the box and places some items on the coffee table, then spreads the towel over the armrest of the couch. “I need you to pull down your pants and bend over so I can take a look,” he says, sounding perfectly neutral, like he's asking John to take out the trash.

John's hands are shaking on his belt when he undoes it. The burning has stopped, but by now he feels sore and open, exposed, his skin tingling with the rush of unsatisfied arousal. John feels awkward with his naked ass up in the air, bent over the side of Harold's couch: at the first touch of Harold's gloved hands on his back John shivers, not unpleasantly.

“Did you use lubrication?” Harold asks. It doesn't sound like a reproof, but John tenses anyway.

“Yeah, I just. I think I got impatient,” John finishes lamely. He remembers the painful stretch, that feeling of being split apart, the hot sweet shudder of pleasure beneath the agony.

“I am going to spread your buttocks now so I can see better, tell me if the pain is too much, okay?”

John clutches at the fabric of the couch. Harold's touch is careful, clinical, but just the thought that Harold is touching him intimately, his finger probing at John's hole, is enough to get John hard all the way again. There is the touch of something that feels soft, like cotton.

“It looks fine, except for a very small tear in the skin. It's undoubtedly painful, though,” Harold says.

John feels pressure and a sharp sting when Harold presses just the tip of his finger inside. “Try to clench around my finger, please,” he says.

The blood is roaring in John's ears. He does, and he feels a little sting for a moment before he relaxes again.

“There seems to be no damage to the musculature of the sphincter, it's just a superficial abrasion, as far as I can determine,” Harold says. “You could have done some serious damage here, though, you should really–”

John is only half listening. The pain has dulled to a distant throbbing, barely there at all, and now all he feels is _horny_ , the arousal from before back in full force. His hips are rubbing against the armrest without his volition, and he pushes back against Harold's finger, trying to get him to go deeper.

“John,” Harold says, his voice full of concern, a gloved hand covering John's waist, trying to keep him still.

“Please,” John says. He barely recognizes his own voice.

He is hard enough that he's tempted to just reach down, touch himself right in front of Harold, anything to ease the pressure. Harold draws in a sharp breath.

“John, you're sore and in pain, I really don't think–”

John pushes back again, putting his weight behind it, and Harold curses and moves his hand away. John whines. Then Harold is walking around to him, kneeling next to the couch. John hides his burning face in the cushions.

“Did you come at any point?” Harold asks gently. He sounds sad, and John distantly hopes that it isn't because of what John did tonight.

“No,” John says. “It was good for a moment, but then it just hurt, and I.” He doesn't know how to explain it. The pain was good, too, but he had gotten soft immediately, his hands shaking with adrenaline, his hair dripping with sweat.

It wasn't about getting off anymore, just filling that huge, overwhelming emptiness inside of him.

John turns his head to Harold. “I didn't mean to mess up,” he whispers, swallowing convulsively.

Harold reaches out to brush John's hair away from his forehead. “I know,” he says, soothing, his thumb stroking John's skin. “I know, John. What on earth gave you the idea?”

John feels keyed-up, a little unhinged: he can't remember the last time he slept, or ate, and all he wants is to make that horrible, hungry need go away. John shifts position a little and the pressure against his cock is nearly enough to make him black out. “I need to come,” John says, a little hysterically. “Harold, I really, really need to come.”

Harold's hand is still resting lightly on John's head, and John moves into the touch, greedy, shameless.

“There is a bathroom upstairs that you can use if you feel like immediate relief is necessary,” Harold says. “John, you look terribly pale, did you get enough sleep lately? Do you feel sick? I think you might be running a fever– ”

It's a good thing that John is beyond all reason and dignity: he clenches his hands into the fabric of the couch until his knuckles turn white. “I need you to make me come.”

There is a faint ringing in John's ear. He wonders if maybe he is having a nervous breakdown of some sort, if Harold is _really_ going to take him to the hospital now that John has proven that he's clearly _insane._

“I'm sorry, John, I can't do that.” Harold gets to his feet and rummages around in the first aid kit some more. “It's only a very small tear, these hurt for a bit, but usually heal on their own. Still, I am a little worried about the risk of infection, so it's important to keep it clean and dry. And before you ask why I know how to deal with this kind of injury, well.” He makes a face. “Let's say my experiences weren't all great. But it usually feels a lot worse than it really is.”

There are tears of frustration in John's eyes, and he bites down on the pillow beneath him to stop himself from crying out when Harold's hands are on him again.

“I will put some antibiotic cream on the abrasion to reduce the risk of infection,” Harold says.

John's hips jerk desperately, trying to get Harold to push his finger inside again while Harold applies the cool ointment. For a moment, John thinks that Harold will just leave it at that, patch him up and send him home, but then he hears the sound of a latex glove being snapped off.

John is shaking. Harold walks around to him again and sits down on the couch, and then he says “Come here, John.” and relief floods John's bloodstream like a drug.

He gets to his feet, feeling shaky but glad, and then sits down next to Harold, half in his lap. Harold doesn't look happy at the position John has chosen, but John doesn't really care. Harold puts a palm against John's forehead, blissfully cool.

“Harold,” John says. It's all that he can manage.

“I should really take you to see a doctor,” Harold says absently, moving his hand away from John's face.

John leans against Harold, inhales the familiar smell.

“John,” Harold says. “Let me take you to the guest room, you should really get some sleep.”

“Touch me,” John says against Harold's collar. He is squirming in Harold's lap, his hips moving where he is rubbing himself against Harold's leg.

“ _John,_ ” Harold says, still not touching him. “No. You're not yourself, you really shouldn't– ”

John distantly realizes that he's moaning, his voice too loud in the quiet of the room. He is rutting against Harold's leg, hands clenched into the fabric of Harold's shirt, and then he gets a moment of perfect friction and whimpers when he comes, his face buried in Harold's shirt collar.

John feels disoriented, like the room is spinning around him, but it doesn't matter: Harold _has_ him, safe and sound, and he will take care of John.

“Come on,” Harold says, urging him to stand and pull his pants back up, and then Harold walks him up the stairs, taking half of John's weight where John is staggering against him. John didn't realize how tired he was this whole time.

Harold leaves John in the guest bathroom for a moment to get cleaned up. John stares at his own reflection in the mirror: there are shadows under his eyes and his hair looks wild and messy. John walks into the guest room to find that Harold has prepared a tray with sandwiches and a bottle of water, and laid out some clean clothes for John.

John eats and drinks mechanically while Harold moves around the room and then disappears downstairs. John can hear his voice, he's probably on the phone, but John is too tired to think: he takes off his clothes and leaves them in a pile next to the bed, puts on the clean shirt and yoga pants and crawls into bed.

John doesn't remember closing his eyes, but there is a silence in the darkness that seems comforting, and Harold is there, Harold will make sure that John is alright.

–

_He calls Mrs. Reese – Joanna, as she keeps insisting – and then walks up to his bedroom to get a change of clothes. He runs cold water over his wrists in the bathroom and tries to slow down his heart rate: he can't very well look like her son climbed into his lap and humped Harold's leg only minutes ago. Especially since Harold had been so close to giving in, putting his hands on him and giving him what he needs just to make him feel better. Harold throws some ice cold water into his face for good measure and turns off the tap. He dabs at his face with a towel: his skin is blotchy, and he looks about as tired as he feels._

_Harold carefully opens the door to the guest bedroom. John is asleep, snoring lightly. He must be drop-dead exhausted. Harold resists the urge to step close to the bed and tuck John in, run a hand through his hair. He goes downstairs to make coffee instead and tries to think of a version of the night's events that doesn't include the unsafe use of sex toys._

–

John drifts in and out of consciousness: the rectangles of light falling in from the windows move around, there is the click of the door and the soft sound of footsteps on the carpet. John feels a hand on his forehead, a brief, comforting touch. He thinks he can smell his mother's perfume, hear the ghost-echo of her voice. When he manages to open his eyes, the room is bright enough to give him a headache.

John blinks. The bedside clock says 12:07. His stomach is growling with hunger and his mouth is dry, but other than that, he feels better, still a little hazy from sleep. John sits up carefully and reaches for the water bottle. Sitting isn't as bad as he imagined it would be, only a faint, barely-there ache. He gulps down half of the water in the bottle before wiping his mouth and getting up.

When John approaches the flight of stairs, he hears voices downstairs.

“... just don't know how he feels about it. I mean, _I_ barely know how I feel about it,” his mom says.

John hears the clinking of glass, the familiar sound of Harold stirring sugar into his tea. “You were married to a soldier,” Harold says softly. “I'm sure you're not too keen on seeing your son become one as well.”

John sits down with his back against the wall. If he leans forward just a little, he can see into the kitchen: the table set with croissants and jam and glasses of orange juice, Harold with his sleeves rolled up, sipping his tea.

“That's the thing,” John's mom says. “As difficult as it was to be the one to stay behind at home, with a kid constantly asking for his dad, it wasn't all bad. It was good for him, I know, it was all he ever wanted to do. He loved his work. And I know that it would be a good way for John to go to college and build a life for himself. I spent a lot of time looking at the options: grants, college loan repayments. They offer scholarships that cover all the college tuition fees after basic training. He'd have to enlist in the Army and complete his service contract in full, of course.”

John swallows. He knows that joining the military to pay for your college education is a possibility, but he didn't know that his mom thinks about it so much. It's never been something he has really considered: hell, John can hardly get himself to even look at scholarship options or college applications, he isn't up to committing to service in the Army.

“I'm sure there are ways to get financial assistance without the need to sign up for active duty,” Harold says. He looks uncomfortable.

John leans a little to the side. His mom is sitting at the table in one of her favorite summer dresses, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She has toed off her pumps, and John has to marvel at the sight of her, completely at ease in Harold's kitchen, as if this is their weekly, standing brunch-appointment. Hell, for all that John knows, it probably _is._

“Your objections about the military are noted, Harold,” John's mom says, grinning over the rim of her coffee cup.

“It's not the military per se,” Harold says, waving his hand impatiently. “I just believe that there are ways to resolve political conflict without the involvement of armed troops.”

John's mom raises an eyebrow at him.

“I am trying very hard to discuss this topic objectively despite my pacifist inclinations,” Harold says.

“Oh, and you're doing admirably,” John's mom says, popping a strawberry into her mouth.

John knows that tone. She's _teasing_ him.

“Did you ask John if he considers it an option?” Harold asks.

John bites his lip. He's glad that she _didn't_ ask him, actually: he will need some more time to come up with an answer beyond “I have seriously no idea”.

“No,” his mom says. “I don't know how he feels about it. What I _do_ know is that, if he chose that path, he wouldn't be comfortable just doing the essentials of basic training and sitting out his service contract somewhere.”

Something passes over Harold's face, but he quickly shakes it off and leans over to refill the glasses of orange juice instead.

John's mom looks down at her hand, twisting her wedding band around her finger. “He'd get his degree, complete his training and be on the first flight to Afghanistan.” Her mouth turns into a thin line and she takes a ragged breath. She's _crying._ “I mean, I'd never– I'd never tell him not to go. And I know that I can't offer him any kind of support, hell, I barely manage to pay for the rent sometimes.”

John is completely sure that Harold will open his mouth and offer her money again, so much that he can't quite process it when Harold _doesn't._ Harold just reaches out and touches the back of her hand. “You'll figure something out,” he says.

John's mom wipes at her eyes. “God, why did you give me that sparkling wine earlier, I'm a mess.”

“A gift from a friend, he's trying to make amends. I can't very well drink it alone, so unless you want me to share it with your teenage son, you'll have to step up to the task,” Harold says, passing her a Kleenex.

John's mom mutters something about _terrible influence_ and squeezes Harold's hand.

John quietly gets up and walks back to the guest room. Suddenly, he's not that hungry anymore.

–

John dozes for another hour, then the guestroom door opens and his mom walks in. She sits down next to him on the mattress.

“I'm sorry,” John says into the pillow.

His mom ruffles his hair like she did when he was a kid. “Are you feeling better? Harold said you were in a pretty bad state when you showed up here.”

John sits up and scrubs a hand over his face. “I wasn't feeling so well,” he says carefully, which is definitely not a lie.

She nods. “He told me that you were almost delirious with exhaustion, John. What happened? Are you working too hard for your midterms? Are you not getting enough sleep?”

“I just had a ton of things to study for, and I guess I overworked myself,” John says. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

His mom laughs. “Well, I think you scared yourself there, John. You certainly scared Harold. He called me right away, I'm just glad that you didn't collapse at home, all by yourself.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I should have gotten more rest, that was stupid.”

“I know that this is a difficult time for you with all that has been going on. And I understand that it's hard to talk to parents about certain things, but you need to promise me that you will talk to _someone_ about the things that bother you, okay? Talk to one of your friends. Talk to Harold. Just make sure that you take care of yourself, okay?”

John nods. He feels awful, and not just because he's tired: he's ashamed of neglecting his school work, getting stressed out and making stupid choices. The thought that Harold saw him like that – desperate, needy – is making him feel sick. “I promise.”

“Good.” She leans in to kiss his forehead. “I have work tonight, but I think Harold has been calling Joss and that Logan boy to come over and help with your studying. It's okay to ask for help when you need it, you know.”

“Says the current champion of the _Don't ever ask anyone's help and do everything on your own_ challenge,” John says.

His mom whacks him with a pillow. “Are you calling me a hypocrite, John Reese?” She grins.

“You are the _worst_ at asking for help. It's a scientific fact.”

“Your face is a scientific fact,” she says, and John hugs her, some of the weight on his chest finally lifting.

–

As it turns out, Harold has called _everyone:_ Joss brings an honest-to-god portable whiteboard, Zoe contributes a shoe box of notes in different people's handwriting (“Whose notes are these?” - “The notes of whomever is currently acing the class, dummy.” - “How did you even _get_ – you know what, I don't want to know.”). Logan shows up on Harold's doorstep carrying a stack of hilariously large pizza boxes.

Sameen punches his arm when she sees him. “Jesus Christ, Reese, what is wrong with you. Why didn't you tell anyone you had trouble catching up? What do you think we all did during the last weeks, kick back and relax? Everyone is losing their shit, you're in good company.”

In the kitchen, Harold makes lemonade and smiles to himself.

When Root shows up, John is convinced that she's simply there to mock him, but instead, she fishes the notes for John's Calculus class out of the box and sits down next to him on the couch. “Okay, let's start with some practice problems,” she says.

“Okay,” John says.

They camp out in Harold's living room, trading notes and coming up with mnemonics for science classes. Root is surprisingly good at explaining maths when she isn't trying to make John's life a living hell, and if John had realized that Logan was, well, _fucking smart_ , he might have started studying with him weeks ago instead of lounging around in the sun.

“When did you get all this done?” John asks him, during a pizza break. “You always hang out with me, I thought you didn't care about school.”

Logan shrugs. “I don't know, things with numbers are kinda easy for me? And I do the assigned reading and homework when I come home at night. I kinda like to hang out with you, I didn't want to bring up the massive pile of work we probably should be tackling.”

“Logan,” John says, “you could have just asked me to hang out, you know?”

Logan blinks at him like John has said something really weird. “Yeah, sure. I mean, you spent so much time with me because I was the only one not constantly chattering about school.”

John feels guilty for a moment, because yeah, that was part of it. “Or maybe I spent time with you because I like you?”

Logan blushes all the way to the roots of his hair. “Midterm season is making you soft, John,” he says. Then he points to something in the chemical equation John has just written down. “I don't think it works that way, buddy, where did that one hydrogen atom go?”

John groans and rests his forehead on the table.

–

John doesn't see Harold all afternoon. They save him some pizza and make an effort not to leave his living room looking like a SAT-themed bomb went off, and then suddenly everyone is hugging John at the door and scheduling study appointments on their phones with him and it's really difficult to get any words out, so John just nods and smiles, waving when they are all driving their bikes up the hill.

When John gets back inside, Harold is waiting for him. “A word, John?”

–

The evening is really nice, warm with a bit of a breeze, not the oppressive heat of the last few days. John and Harold sit on the patio and look up at the purple bruises on the sky.

“I'm really sorry about last night,” John says before Harold can open his mouth. “It was dumb and thoughtless and I shouldn't have gotten myself into that situation in the first place.”

Harold acknowledges that with a nod of his head. “What _happened_?”

John shrugs. “I was tired and alone, mostly. I just wanted to feel something,” he says. “I don't know. It was like, everyone had their lives figured out, had some kind of purpose, and I was just. Sad. And everything seemed kinda pointless for a while.”

Harold doesn't say anything. He just stirs his lemonade with a spoon, the ice cubes clinking against the glass.

“You don't want to be with me,” John says. “I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with my future. I just didn't want to think about all that for a while.”

Harold's face goes soft with compassion. “John, I didn't mean that I don't want you to talk to me, or that I don't want you to be a part of my life.” He circles the rim of the glass with his fingertip. “Do you remember the things we talked about with the others that one time? About how important consent is?”

John crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, sure, I get it. I'm a _kid_ , I don't know what I want, I can't consent to anything, I get it.”

Harold frowns at him. “That's not my point, actually. You are absolutely able to make your own choices. John, I'm not saying that you don't know what you _feel_. I just think in this specific instance it's not a good idea to act on it.”

“I have no idea what that means,” John says.

Harold takes a sip from his glass. “I wasn't talking about your consent, John, I was talking about mine.”

John blanches. “I. What?”

Harold doesn't seem upset, thankfully. “You might remember that we talked about how it's important to ask for consent before initiating an action because it respects a person's autonomy? Their right to make decisions? Well, I think I made it quite clear last night that I wasn't giving consent.”

John swallows hard. It feels like the world is spinning a little, rearranging itself. _Crap._ He hears Harold saying: _“I'm sorry, John, I can't do that.”_ He hears Harold saying _“No,”_ and the next thing that happens is John climbing into his lap and rubbing himself off against his leg. John hides his face in his hands. Oh god.

“John,” Harold says, his voice endlessly gentle. “John, look at me.”

John lets his hands drop into his lap. His chest feels tight with panic.

“I _understand_ why you were not in a state to put your own needs aside to look at somebody else's. I do. And I want you to know that nothing bad has happened – it's fine, John, I know you didn't mean to cause any harm. But the thing is: this situation could have played out quite differently. As much empathy as I have for your current state of mind – you're unhappy and tired and you were probably scared out of your mind last night – you need to realize that you could have done some serious damage with this kind of behavior.”

John nods. He lets the feeling wash over him, nausea settling in his stomach. “I'm so sorry, Harold.”

Harold tilts his head a little. “It could have been someone else, John. What if you had been with Logan instead of me?”

That thought makes John feel physically sick: Logan would do _anything_ if he thought it would make John happy, John knows that.

“Do you think Logan would have stopped you if you tried to bulldoze right over his boundaries?” Harold asks, very deliberately.

“No,” John says quietly. Logan would go down on his knees in the blink of an eye for him, even if he didn't really want to. He'd _endure_ it.

“John, you keep insisting that you're an adult, somebody capable of making their own decisions. But the thing is: your actions do affect others. If you end up hurting someone, you have to live with that for the rest of your life.” Harold pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don't think you are able to consider other people's wants and needs, not with everything that is going on in your life. And that is okay. You are allowed to figure that out. You are allowed to learn how to manage your life and emotions in a way so you won't end up in a situation where you can't control yourself.”

John nods. He feels pretty bad for not realizing this sooner: now that he allows himself to take the memories from last night out of the mental box he shoved them into, John remembers Harold's worried, uncomfortable expression. _You need to realize that you could have done some serious damage._

“I should really get home,” John says. He feels kind of numb, like he was out in the cold for too long.

A small, pathetic part of John hopes that Harold will ask him to stay, to put his arms around him and tell John that everything is going to be okay.

Harold puts his glass on the table. “If you and your friends need someplace to study, feel free to drop by anytime.”

John knows it's meant as a kindness, Harold's version of an olive branch, but John is too busy feeling awful about himself to manage a smile. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks, Harold.”

–

_He follows John into the house. John is silent, his shoulders hunched. Harold tries to think of a way to reassure him without offering immunity: it's important that John realizes that his actions have consequences, but at the same time, seeing him suffer makes Harold's chest hurt._

“ _You should know that you can always talk to me,” Harold says._

_John, on his way to the door, turns around to him. “Can I ask you something?”_

“ _Of course.”_

_John looks at him like Harold's answer is extremely important. “Are you going to tell me the truth?”_

_Well, that doesn't bode well. “If you want to ask me a question, I'll answer it to the best of my knowledge,” Harold says._

“ _Do you regret it? Kissing me?” John's eyes are big and concerned._

_Just lie, Harold thinks, a little hysterically. “Yes,” he says, and then, because John's face falls with disappointment and Harold has a history of ignoring his own advice: "I regret doing it the way I did, as a means to achieve something else and not for your sake."_

_John blinks quickly, like he's trying really hard to keep his composure._

_"I'm sorry that it happened the way it did, " Harold says. "That kiss, it should have been different. You deserve something different. Something better."_

_Harold has no idea why John would bring this up, especially now. It feels oddly final, like a goodbye. Like Harold rejected him, and John is grasping at the last straws of intimacy, of connection. It makes panic flare up in his chest, and all Harold can think of is the way John melted under Harold's touch when he kissed him, the soft noise of pleasure he made, like nobody ever–_

“ _How should it have been?” John asks. He's close enough that Harold can feel John's breath ghosting over his cheek._

_Harold takes a deep breath. “I'll show you, one day, if you want,” he says._

_John's eyes light up with sheer relief. Harold really hopes that John won't come any closer, look at him with those big, pleading eyes, because Harold is pretty sure if he does, the last thread of Harold's self-restraint will snap and he will end up pushing John against a wall and devouring him. In a heroic attempt at self-restraint, Harold says: “I think you should go now, John.”_

_John nods thoughtfully. He turns to leave, but hesitates. „Would you wait for me?“ John asks._

_Harold feels like someone punched him into the chest. „I'm sorry?“_

„ _If I asked you to wait for me,“ John says, his eyes huge and earnest, „until I'm ready for these things. Until I figured out what to do with my life and what I want, and all that. Would you do it?“_

„ _Yes,“ Harold hears himself say. „I'd wait for you.“_

_John smiles, a careful, beautiful smile. „Wait for me,“ John says, his voice choked and raw on the words. He meets Harold's eyes for the briefest moment, and then he turns around and is gone._

–

_Harold spends the next hour in the shower, trying to avoid jerking off to the images of last night._

_He imagines John, begging Harold to make him come, his clothes in disarray, the hair at the back of his neck sweat-slick. John hadn't showered before he showed up at Harold's place. Even while Harold was trying to be detached and clinical, John's desperate pleas and the state of him – his pants undone and his hair a mess and his skin glistening with sweat – had been enough to get Harold inappropriately turned on._

_Harold feels absolutely disgusted with himself: John came to him in a state of vulnerability, of need, and all Harold can think about is all the things he could do to John, how good Harold could make him feel. He imagines pulling John close and caressing every inch of his body, or kissing him against the wall of Harold's living room with a hand wrapped around John's cock. John would gasp and cling to Harold's shoulders, greedy for more, and Harold would give him all of it: kiss him and touch him and make him come until he was sated and drowsy with pleasure, stretched out on Harold's sheets._

_Harold twists the faucet until the water is running cold, but even that doesn't do much to deter him: he is achingly hard, and he doesn't have enough self-control left to resist. The mental image of John bent over his lap with his pants pushed down to his ankles presents itself, John rubbing himself off desperately against Harold's pants. Now that he started thinking about John bent over his lap, it's all too easy to imagine Harold smacking John's bare ass with his open palm, John's soft, desperate whimpers against the fabric of the couch while Harold gives him a spanking. He imagines making John shiver and sob before flipping him over and pushing him onto his back to leisurely suck his cock._

_Harold braces himself on the slippery tile with one hand and gives his cock a few rough strokes with the other. He thinks about the way John said 'I need you to make me come', rutting against Harold's leg, the little, needy sounds he made, and then Harold groans and spills over his hand, the force of his orgasm leaving him dizzy. He stands under the spray for a long time, feeling awful about himself._

–

“ _Please kill me_ ,” Sameen groans when she flops down next to John on the lawn outside their history classroom.

John weakly mimes finger guns at her.

Across from them, Joss is paging frantically through her notes.“I know I read this somewhere. This is going to drive me insane for the rest of the day.”

“Calm down, I'm sure you did everything perfectly,” Zoe says, snapping her bubblegum. “Also I love you mostly for your looks anyway, I don't care if you wrote something dumb in your history midterm.”

“Thanks,” Joss says absently, “I'm trying a new thing with my hair. Hey, _what_ did you say?”

“Joss couldn't make a dumb point in an exam if she _tried_ ,” Logan complains. He stares down at his pencil in confusion. “Me, however?” He shakes his head. “I think I spelled my _name_ wrong on the exam sheet.”

Sameen gives him a dubious look. “Why am I sleeping with you?” she asks.

“Nobody knows,” John says, his arm draped over his eyes to block out the sunlight.

Sameen kicks John's leg. “ _Ow._ ” He sits up to rub his shin through his jeans. “You'll never get into med school unless you stop with the random acts of violence.”

“How many more days of this madness?” Logan asks.

Everybody stares off into the distance for a while.

“My brain is pretty fried, but I think our Calculus midterm is tomorrow,” Sameen says.

Now John feels like murdering her for real.

–

“How did it go?” John's mom asks, when John unlocks the front door. She must have set herself an alarm, she has a shift tonight and should be sleeping.

“Okay, I guess,” John says, wincing. “Everyone thought it was a pretty tough exam. Even Joss was rattled.”

“That's not good,” his mom says, trying to flatten her hair with her fingers. “Do you have another study session over at Harold's this week?”

John sets down his backpack. “Not really,” he says.

His mom tilts her head at him. “You haven't been there in weeks.”

“Oh?” John asks, trying to feign surprise.

“Are you avoiding him?” John's mom asks, just as John walks into the kitchen to find the table littered with printouts and brochures. John reads _G.I. Bill, Army College Programs, College Loan Repayment Options_.

“I actually meant to put this away before you came back home,” his mom says, hurrying into the kitchen and gathering up the papers. “It's not like you need to worry about stuff like this during your midterms, huh.”

John puts a hand on her arm. “You know what? Actually, I think I do want to talk about it.”

She gives him a soft smile. “I'll make us some tea.”


	5. Epilogue

“Why do you have so much stuff?” Sameen asks, peeking into a cardboard box next to her. “What _is_ all that?”

“Kitchen appliances,” John says, squinting at the sharpie label on the box. The living room is cut off from the rest of the apartment except for a small tunnel between two towers of moving boxes that Sameen can squeeze through if she is really careful.

“You know you only get like, one bedroom, yes? I don't own a loft like other people,” Sameen leans against the kitchen appliances box. “Ugh, someone make me food, my arms are useless now.”

John grins and looks around. He thinks the apartment is pretty damn great: a two bedroom on the fourth floor, currently half empty because Sameen's roommate moved out. John finds the timing a little suspicious: it's weird that Cole would decide to move just in time for John to graduate from basic training. Then again, John wouldn't put it past Sameen to be generally terrifying in his direction until he felt like he should maybe go apartment hunting.

“Maybe we can just live like this,” John muses. “Some of these would make a nice couch.”

“You could sleep in the bathtub if we don't feel like assembling your bed.”

“You have a bathtub?” John asks, grinning. This whole 'moving in together' stunt keeps getting cooler and cooler. Sameen mentioned that there's like, a balcony. He really hopes that she didn't murder anyone to get this apartment. Then again, even if she did: if John has faith in _someone_ to commit homicide and then dispose of the body without leaving forensic traces, it's definitely Sameen.

“ _We_ have a bathtub, Reese,” Sameen says.

They bump fists. John mimes an explosion, and Sameen stares at him. “You're the least cool person I know, John. And I lived with a guy who thought the CIA was spying on everyone with satellites.”

Her phone chirps. “Hah,” Sameen says.

“What?”

“Root sent me her deepest condolences because I now have to live with you. Also she says she hasn't forgiven you yet for the fact that Harold moved back to New York because of you.”

John huffs. “I'm pretty sure he would have moved back _eventually_. He has a company here.”

Sameen smirks.

“ _What_?” John asks, fishing a shoe from one of the boxes and throwing it into her general direction.

“I just remembered that you have a super rich boyfriend. Why even bother with college, Reese? I'm sure you would make a great trophy husband. I mean, you have no sense of style and your hair is a hot mess, but with a new outfit, maybe a Birkin bag? You could really go places.”

“I will tell Logan about how you're trying to sabotage my academic career next time you give him hell about his start-up.”

Sameen rolls her eyes. “Well, I hope he's not expecting to be _my_ trophy husband if his business goes down the drain. All that's in the cards for me in the future is a bunch of student loans and twenty million night shifts.”

John turns to look at her. “I'm really excited,” he says, biting his lip.

She laughs. “Me too, Reese. Me too.”

–

John has to admit that living with Sameen is a little more awesome than the dormitories with bunk beds in basic training, especially since nobody wakes him up and makes spot checks of the rooms. Well. Sameen _does_ wake him up, blasting music when she comes in after her morning run, but she also sets out a mug of coffee for him and tapes messages to the fridge that read BUY SOME MILK, JOHN in unfriendly all-caps.

John doesn't really miss his old home: her new place in New York is much nicer, and something about his mom is different, too. John had been pretty surprised when his mom called him in basic training to tell him that Olivia and Nathan had been dropping in at Harold's place to convince him to come back, and that Olivia had liked her so much that she offered her a job as her secretary. John can actually imagine that: he met Nathan and Olivia once for coffee, and can just see her taking his mom's hand and putting her business card in it:

“This would actually be _you_ doing me a favor since my secretaries keep quitting every other week. I usually hire these college girls without any job experience, and then they realize that coordinating multiple charities and board meetings and all kinds of social events is actually stressful, hard work. I am in the process of launching a magazine, which makes everything 200% crazier, and I really. I mean, you raised a teenage boy, you must have nerves of _steel._ Anyway, give me a call, we need to talk about this.”

Much to John's surprise, his mom had cheerfully packed up all of their things three weeks later. Maybe it was time to start fresh for both of them.

Now when John sees his mom, she is usually on the phone, rearranging appointments and ordering flowers for Olivia's office and saving fundraising galas last minute. John would never have thought that his mom could be like that: one of the women in business suits and with nice handbags who work in an office building. Then again, it's his _mom_ : he has always known that she could do anything if she put her mind to it.

–

_John is visibly impressed by the penthouse the first time he visits, just after he moved in with Sameen. His hair is shorn down to a buzzcut: Harold already saw it at the basic training graduation ceremony, but it is still startlingly different. John wears jeans and a black polo shirt. He looks out over the railing of the balcony to where the lights are setting over the city._

“ _This place is insane,” he says, when he comes back in._

_Harold smiles. “Nathan picked it out. I lived in the same place I had moved in after college, essentially a dim, slightly moldy basement, and Nathan wouldn't have any of it. I didn't really care either way, mind you, I basically lived at work. You should see the place Nathan bought for himself. There's an indoor pool.”_

_John shakes his head. “You guys really made a lot of money with IFT,” he says, like he didn't actually realize before now._

“ _Money isn't everything,” Harold says. He hands John a cup of coffee._

_John grins. “Unless you don't have any,” he says. “Then it's actually quite an issue.”_

_Harold winces. “Sorry,” he says._

_John takes a sip from his cup. “It's okay,” he says. “I've been here for ten minutes and you didn't try to give me a handful of dollar bills, I consider that an improvement.”_

_Harold shakes his head. “And here I thought basic training was going to improve your manners,” he says._

_It makes him very aware of the fact that they haven't been alone for a long time: there had been midterms and college applications and finally John's SATs, and Harold had been busy packing up boxes and having them shipped off back to New York. Then John had left for basic training, and suddenly Harold was back in his old life, with a suspiciously apologetic Nathan and half of a company to run. It's the first time they're alone together since their lives changed completely, and Harold feels the weight of that like lead on his shoulders._

–

“Are you hungry?” Harold asks.

John shrugs. “Nah, I'm fine.” He sets the coffee cup down onto the glass table in front of the couch.

For a moment, they just look at each other across the living room. John's hair is starting to grow out a little after the buzzcut, and even though Harold is always grumpy about the military as an institution, John thinks he secretly likes it: he keeps sneaking glances at him like he can't quite believe that John is real.

“I really missed you,” John says.

Harold smiles, a real, unguarded smile that makes John's knees feel weak. “I missed you, too,” he says.

Harold crosses the distance to John and all John has to do is to open his arms and then they're hugging: the familiar smell of Harold's cologne and the soft fabric of his shirt under John's hands are making him dizzy, and Harold's hands are on his back, his thumb stroking John's back through the fabric of his t-shirt.

After a moment, John draws back to look at Harold. “Can I kiss you?”, he blurts.

Harold takes a ragged breath and puts a hand against John's cheek as a reply, pulling him close to fit their mouths together. John sighs against his lips and clutches at Harold's collar while they kiss, and it's even better this time: John has time to memorize the way Harold's lips feel against his, the feeling of his body pressed against John's, the way he deepens the kiss when John slides his arms around his body and pulls Harold flush against him. John is hard enough that he worries about embarrassing himself any moment.

They stumble backwards until Harold's legs hit the couch and he can pull John on top of him. There's a lot of aimless making out: John kisses every bit of skin that he can reach and tries to wriggle out of his clothes at the same time.

Finally, Harold makes a frustrated noise and says: “Bedroom,“ and well, John can't argue with that.

Harold's bedroom looks much like the rest of the penthouse: sleek and expensive, with a stupidly large bed and giant floor-to-ceiling windows that turn opaque at the flick of a switch.

John doesn't last very long the first time, he is much too wound up. Just having Harold there with him, out of his clothes and all soft skin and body heat for John to curl up against, is almost too overwhelming. John comes before Harold has even put a hand on his cock, rubbing himself off against Harold's thigh.

Later, Harold shows him how he likes to be touched, his own hand over John's where John is stroking him. Harold makes soft, appreciative noises that get John hard again almost instantly. Harold closes his eyes when he comes with a sudden twitch of his hips. John looks down at him in amazement. As soon as Harold recovered a little, he pushes John down onto his back and slides down his body to suck John's cock, and all John can do is gasp and clutch at Harold's shoulders and try to last longer than a few seconds.

John could stay this way forever: curled up in the safety and comfort of Harold's bed, napping and kissing between rounds of enthusiastic sex. Harold is _incredibly_ good with his hands, which makes John vaguely jealous until Harold explains something about the fine motor skills necessarily to handle complicated computer equipment.

They get dressed long enough to greet the pizza delivery guy at the door before losing their clothes again and eating slices of pizza straight out of the box in bed.

“We should talk about some ground rules,” Harold says, through a mouth of pepperoni and onion.

“Like what?” John asks.

“Like, _Tell me if you're comfortable with things and be honest with me about what you want,_ ” Harold says.

“How about _Always use more lube than you think is necessary_?” John asks.

Harold smacks him with a pillow. “I'm serious,” he says.

“Can we have the relationship talk tomorrow, Harold? I'm full of pizza and afterglow.”

“You are terrible,” Harold says, but he's smiling.

–

John wakes up at around three with Harold's body warm and solid next to him. When he turns his head, he can see that Harold is awake, too, propped up on his elbow and watching him. Harold runs his fingertips over John's bare shoulder, and John makes a pleased noise and curls up closer.

“I didn't think it could be like this,” Harold says.

John kisses his chest, runs his hand through the soft chest hair and down over Harold's ribs. “Hmh?”

“I've never done this with someone I love,” Harold says.

John's ears are ringing. _“Oh,”_ he says, stupidly. He can't quite process the implications of that, and the word 'love' is making him feel dizzy, like all the oxygen got sucked out of the room. He kisses Harold's chest just above his heart. “How does it feel, then?”

Harold smiles at him. “Incredible.“

John leans in to kiss him and they get all tangled up with each other again: John lying on top of Harold, nuzzling his throat, Harold's hands stroking down John's spine, the small of his back. “I want,” John starts, but the words won't quite make it out of his throat.

Harold kisses his forehead. “You can tell me,” he says, gently.

John swallows hard. “I want you to fuck me.”

Harold takes a shuddering breath.

–

Harold has John lie down on his back and then moves down between John's legs, with John's thighs draped over his shoulder. He kisses his way upwards from the insides of John's legs and then puts his mouth against John's hole, and John curses and moans, glad for Harold's incredibly expensive, probably sound-proofed bedroom. Harold licks into him and John clutches at the sheets and throws his head back; it feels so good he thinks he's going to pass out.

“Wait,” he manages, and Harold moves back immediately, looking worried.

“Is everything alright?”, Harold asks.

John is panting at the ceiling. “Need a moment,” he says between breaths. “Gonna come.”

When John looks down, Harold's smile is incredibly smug.

–

_He has John position himself on all fours on the bed: Harold kneels behind him so he can lean down to press kisses between John's shoulder blades and murmur reassurances into his skin. John has been close to coming for a while now, but he is determined to control himself. Harold slides a lube-slick finger into him and John moans unashamedly, pushing back against Harold's hand._

“ _Please, please, Harold,” John gasps._

_Harold is as careful with him as he can manage, holding John's hips in place as good as he can to stop John from pushing back impatiently and hurting himself. John sobs beneath him when Harold lines up his cock and pushes in inch by slow inch. The noises he makes would be enough to make Harold shudder and come without even touching his cock, but he grits his teeth and paces himself._

“ _Oh, yes,” John says when Harold finds the right angle, and Harold kisses the sweaty skin of his neck._

“ _You're gorgeous,” he says, rocking into him, “I want to make you feel so good.”_

_John makes a helpless, needy noise at that, shuddering violently._

“ _Come on, touch yourself for me,” Harold says._

_John gasps and wraps a hand around his own cock, stroking himself in time with Harold's thrusts._

“ _That's it, just like that,” Harold says, mouthing at John's shoulder, and John clenches around him and spills over his hand with a whimper._

_Harold groans and buries himself deeply, and the gasp John makes is enough to make Harold shiver and spill into the condom._

_They lie curled up together after that, sweaty and spent, John boneless and pliant in his arms. Harold holds him close and tries to breathe through the sudden tightness in his chest, the anxiety of 'Oh god, what if I hurt you, what if I end up making you miserable' that suddenly grips him. He runs his hands over John's arms and kisses the top of his head. He vows to do the best he can do, to be so, so good for him._

\--

“Oh god, you're going to kill me,” Harold says groggily when he wakes up the next morning.

John curls even closer against him, pointedly rubbing his erection against Harold's leg and kissing his shoulder.

“You must be spent at _some_ point,” Harold complains.

“You had the whole night to recover,” John says, and nuzzles Harold's throat.

John reaches down between the sheets to close a hand around Harold's cock and tease him into hardness. Harold makes a very undignified moan and shifts closer. “Aren't you sore from last night?”, he asks, sounding a bit guilty.

John grins. “Who says I'm the one getting fucked this time?”

Harold's ears turn very pink and his hips jerk against John's hand. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and John leans down to press a kiss against Harold's temple just because he can.

–

The good thing about going to college in New York isn't just that John gets to live in the same city as his mom and Harold and Sameen, but also that a part of his social circle has made it over there as well. He has lunch with Sameen and Joss before they head off for afternoon lectures, in a little cafe close to campus.

Joss currently plots her law school education, working very determinedly towards a career in the FBI. “You guys will be the ultimate power couple,” Sameen says, gesturing with her fork. “Zoe should use her journalism degree to become a foreign correspondent or something.”

“I think she's more interested in investigative journalism,” Joss says, shrugging. “Maybe going long-distance isn't so bad.”

John takes a bite of his club sandwich. Zoe got a really great scholarship at San Francisco State. They skyped a few times, and Zoe looked happy and busy and looked at her phone seven times during the call. It felt just like old times.

“It's not like I have time for date night right now,” Joss says, pointing to her color-coded Filofax.

“How is Logan doing?”

Sameen makes a face. “Harold and I take turns lecturing him about what a dumb idea it is to drop out of college. But he is absolutely determined to do his own thing, get his start-up on the way. I mean, either he's going to crash and burn with his,” she makes finger quotes in the air,“'company', or he'll be richer than all of us in five years. Who knows.”

Joss frowns at John's schedule. “These classes are all over the place, John. Did you just take everything? What is even your major?”

John shrugs. “Not sure yet.”

Joss gives him the _stare_. “Please tell me you're not aspiring to be one of these guys who smoke weed in their dorm rooms and declare a new major every week because committing to something is restricting their creative freedom.”

“Give him a break, he just started out. He has some time to declare a major, not everyone had their career all planned out since they were twelve,” Sameen says, finishing John's fries. „John has to catch up on all of these months he spent being bossed around by military types in some training facility.“

John laughs. “I just took some stuff I think I might be interested in? I still have time to figure it out.”

Joss hands the schedule back. “You're thinking of doing career military, aren't you.”

Sameen stops eating and looks at John.

He looks down at his schedule. “I don't know,” he says. “I have to do four years on active duty and four years Army Reserve once I'm done with college, I'll just see how I like it.”

“Okay, but imagine this: the three of us, meeting in a tent somewhere in the desert, where Joss is doing counter terrorism stuff, John is employed with his platoon and I'm doing _Médecins Sans Frontières._ It will be epic,” Sameen says.

Joss raises her glass. “To a tent in the desert,” she says, grinning.

–

“What do you think about the salmon?”, John's mom asks.

John takes a bite and makes a face. “What is that, ginger and... cinnamon?”

She smells a bite-sized portion of fancy-looking salmon and makes a face. “You're right, that's gross. Do we have an opinion on the roast beef yet?”

John consults his notes. “We _love_ the roast beef,” he says.

His mom's kitchen counters are barely visible beneath all the silver trays filled with food: the catering company she has hired for some kind of gala has sent over a hilarious amount of canapés, wine bottles and cake samples. Instead of meeting John for lunch, she suggested that they meet up and discuss the menu options, and John isn't going to say no to free gourmet food, even though some of the choices are _really_ exotic.

“Can you not serve the weird clams with white wine?” John asks. “They're squishy inside.”

“They're supposed to be squishy,” his mom says. “Just ask Harold.” She wears a charcoal-gray dress with black boots and a colorful scarf. She wears her hair a little shorter now, and her earrings sparkle where she has her hair tucked behind her ears. The earrings were a Christmas gift from Olivia and came with a card that said: _Thanks for saving my life daily. You are wonderful. xxx_

“Harold's idea of food is Mac n Cheese from a box and Campbell's tomato soup,” John says darkly. “His opinions on gourmet food don't count.”

His mom laughs. “Fair enough. How is he doing? I hope he can tear himself away from his work for long enough to attend the gala? I worked really hard to make sure he knows precisely how much it would mean to me,” she says, leaning back in her chair. Next to her handbag, her phone is buzzing, but she ignores it. No matter how busy she is: time with John falls under the strict 'no work emergencies allowed' rule. “Guilt goes a long way to convince Harold to go to social gatherings.”

John can see why his mom is so successful in this business: she is kind of evil. “He asked me to go with him as his plus one,” he says. He can feel the tips of his ears turning pink.

His mom stops making notes about the squishy clam things. “Did he now,” she says, smiling.

“I don't even have a tux,” John says, stabbing a weird piece of sushi with his fork.

“Well, that's a problem. It's not like there are any stores or even private tailors in New York city who could help you out there,” she says. “I am pretty sure Olivia still has the number of that one _Project Runway_ winner.”

“Mom,” John says. “Did it occur to you that maybe I don't want to be fitted for a suit?”

She grins. “Do you want to go to a fancy party with your disgustingly rich boyfriend?”

John meets her eyes. “I kinda do,” he says.

His mom waves her pen around. “You have to make sacrifices in life, John. Do it for me. So I can take lots of pictures of the two of you and brag to everyone at the gala how dashing my son looks and how proud I am of him.”

John looks at her over the epic canapé battlefield battle on the table. “You are?”

“I couldn't be prouder,” she says.

John walks over to hug her for good measure.

–

“It's a really great class,” John says, turning down the heat on the stove.

Harold is standing at the kitchen island, a glass of red wine in hand, very deliberately not messing with John's dinner preparations.

Harold has cleared off a shelf to house John's battered paperbacks: it's not like John couldn't have crammed his books into his bedroom with the rest of his stuff, but it's a nice gesture. It makes John feel like he's not just a visitor at Harold's place. He also keeps a change of clothes in the guest room wardrobe and a toothbrush in the en suite bathroom.

John takes a look at the steaks and puts the glass bowl with salad onto the table. “Sameen is working through all those science classes this term, there are index cards everywhere. She draws chemical formulas on the bathroom in dry-erase marker, it's _insane._ ”

Harold is quiet, more so than usual. He listens attentively, occasionally asks John a question, but most of the time he just looks at him. It's the same look he had when he hugged John after they all got out of the auditorium after John's graduation from basic training: proud and awed and kind of happy.

John's mom had been crying and taking a million pictures even though he only learned _really_ basic stuff and rules and the 'drills' weren't really like the things you saw in movies, where soldiers crawl on their bellies beneath barbed wire in the mud while the rain is beating down on them. (“That's Ranger training you're thinking of, my boy,” one of John's instructors had said and slapped him on the back when John was talking to a friend about real basic training versus the television kind. “You're still in the kiddy pool here, the fun stuff happens later, when we throw you in the deep end.”).

John turns off the stove. “Hey, can you hand me those plates over there?”

Harold, instead of passing them over, puts his wineglass on the counter, steps forward and puts his hands on both sides of John's face. John is really glad that he is not holding the salad bowl right now, he's pretty sure he would have dropped it. Then Harold leans in and kisses him. John moves closer, his hands resting against Harold's chest. Harold moves his hand a little so he can stroke the skin behind John's ear. His lips are very soft, and John sighs and melts against him.

When they part, Harold's cheeks are flushed. His shirt is very soft under John's hands.

“I've been meaning to do that all night,” Harold says.

John steps closer so he can nuzzle Harold's jaw. “Do it again, then,” he says, inhaling the familiar smell of Harold's cologne.

“Dinner will get cold,” Harold says. His hands stroke over John's back through his t-shirt.

“You own the most expensive microwave I've ever seen, I think we can figure something out,” John says.

Harold draws back a little to look at him. “We always do, don't we. We always figure something out.”

John leans in to kiss him again, feeling sweetly, stupidly happy. “Stop talking and kiss me, Harold.”

\-- fin


End file.
